Of Glasses and Tea Bags
by GirlFromNorth
Summary: A collection of random, unrelated one-shots. 12: "In which Merlin is painfully careless, Uther fears for the future of Camelot, and Arthur is just doing his best."
1. In which Arthur remains oblivious

**I've joined the frenzied chaos that is Merlin, and I am greatly pleased with the fandom (good lord, the fanfictions around here are amazing. I think I've arrived in heaven).** **Another thing this fandom has a lot of are these "collection-fanfics". Just... one fanfiction containing loads of one-shots; I believe I've fallen in love with these. So, I'm giving it a try - whether or not I update this story remains to see!**

 **Warnings regarding this one-shot: Crack-ish.**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own. Surprise.**

 **Summary: _In which Arthur knows more than usual but still remains oblivious, Merlin is decidedly unimpressed, and Lancelot's eyebrows know no bounds._**

* * *

It happens fast – but not fast enough to remain undetected. The dagger is magically thrown straight towards Arthur, and somewhere in the background he can hear Merlin yelling. And then, somehow, _miraculously_ , the dagger misses him. Only, it doesn't miss him with a few inches or by a hairsbreadth – something that could have been _explained_. No; it misses him by completely changing direction and slamming into the trunk of a tree instead of into Arthur's chest.

And Merlin – Merlin's eyes are burning gold.

They're back to normal within less than a second, but he can't ignore what he saw. He'd recognize sorcery anywhere, even if he wishes he couldn't in this instance.

Lancelot unceremoniously slams the hilt of his sword against the shocked sorcerer's head, and he crumbles to the ground in a heap. The knight's eyes flicker nervously between Arthur and Merlin, and he takes a hesitant step towards Merlin _(not that Arthur can blame him for his nervousness – he just saw his friend use magic, after all)._ Merlin himself is deathly pale as he stares at the prince, and he raises his hands in the commonly known gesture of peace _(which Arthur finds a tad counterproductive, considering most sorcerers use hand gestures to direct their magic)._

"Arthur," he starts, wide-eyed and jittery, but he doesn't seem to know what to say next. Lancelot's face is a mixture of dismay and fierce protectiveness _(Arthur's a bit shocked by the protective set of his shoulders – apparently he takes his duties as the prince's knight very seriously),_ and he takes a few more steps towards them. Arthur is suddenly painfully aware of the sword in Lancelot's hand, and really, they hardly need Merlin any more skittish than he already is.

"Lancelot," Arthur calls sharply.

The knight stills and sends him a wary look. "Sire?"

"…Put away your sword."

Lancelot blinks but obeys without question, looking relieved and suspiciously hopeful. "Alright," Arthur sighs before pointing a finger at Merlin. "You. I don't know why the _hell_ you suddenly decided to start studying magic, nor _when_ , and frankly, I don't really care. This stops now, do you understand?"

"Do I… Wait, what?"

"Oh for god's sake, would you stop looking at me like I'm going to run a sword through you?" Arthur snaps.

"I don't know, would you stop looking at me like you're going to run a sword through me?" Merlin replies, even though he still appears to be two seconds away from being sick. Lancelot merely raises his eyebrows at them.

"If I'm executing anyone I need to know they deserve the verdict they get, and that the judgement fits the crime. I'm not sentencing everyone who's a suspect of magic to death, you idiot – "

"I just used magic in front of you, I can hardly classify as a _suspect_ anymore–"

"Do you really think I'm going to have you killed for using a magic trick?" Arthur asks, slightly offended at Merlin's lack of faith in him.

"Um," Merlin says faintly. "Yes?"

" _Anyway_ ," Arthur says, louder than strictly necessary. "I need your word that you'll never use magic again, and then we'll leave this behind us."

"No."

Arthur can't tell who's more shocked by the protest that tears itself from Merlin's mouth; Arthur, Lancelot, or Merlin himself _(although, come to think of it, Lancelot doesn't look surprised at all. His eyebrows have risen higher than before, yes, but he looks more exasperated than shocked)._ Merlin opens his mouth and closes it while frowning.

"…in retrospective, that would probably have been an ideal moment to smile, nod, agree, and tearfully thank you for your oh-so-merciful heart of gold."

Arthur grits his teeth and breathes out heavily through his nose. "Merlin," he starts pleasantly, and his lips form a sharp smile that is about as charming as an angry wyvern about to rip your throat out. "What. The actual. Hell."

"Pardon me, sire," Lancelot pipes up, smoothly interrupting Merlin's _(no doubt offensive)_ tirade before he's able to start. "But magic is sometimes able to…um. Spontaneously appear in a person – it is not always required to be learned. Some are even…born with magic?" the knight sends a meaningful _**look**_ towards Merlin, who responds with a similar _**look**_. Arthur chooses to ignore their soulful staring in order to focus on the actual issue.

"You're saying not all magic-users choose magic?" he asks carefully. Both Merlin and Lancelot nod eagerly, their heads bobbing up and down in a disturbingly similar way. Well, Arthur reasons with a faint feeling of relief, the new information made the situation with Merlin much easier to cope with. After all, if Merlin didn't _choose_ the magic he didn't deliberately betray him. "So it can manifest as a disease," Arthur clarifies, and then watches _(somewhat confused)_ as his companions' faces fall in dismay.

"I'm not diseased!" Merlin protests in an amusingly high-pitched voice.

"It's alright, Merlin," Arthur soothes and squeezes the servant's shoulders. "We can find a way to fix this; Lancelot must have seen a lot during his travels, and if he doesn't have an answer, I'm sure we can find some kind of a cure.

"I do _not_ want a cure," Merlin splutters incredulously, and Arthur kindly decides to overlook it. The poor man is obviously confused, no doubt terrified: and despite Merlin's claims, Arthur's not actually a cruel man.

"Lancelot says this can manifest as a disease, and diseases have cures."

"I literally did not say that, sire."

"Hush, Lancelot."

"Yes, sire."

"Arthur, this is hardly the first time I've used magic," Merlin hisses and Arthur calmly tones out the servant's grating protests.

"We will return to Camelot at once – don't fret, Merlin, there's hardly a need to tell my father of this… unfortunate occurrence – and you may consult Gaius whether or not he can help you. And under **no** circumstances are you to reveal your magic to _anyone_ else, do you understand? No prancing around in the courtyard levitating objects, no trying to impress the maidservants with any fancy _highly illegal_ magic tricks, no _illegal_ magical cheating on your chores, no trips to the tavern with Gwaine to explore any _highly illegal_ magic tricks while drunk… No magic displays, is that clear?"

Merlin stares at him. "Why the hell would I reveal my magic to anyone in Camelot?"

Arthur doesn't grace him with an answer, and turns towards Lancelot instead. "And you, sir Lancelot," Arthur says and straightens his back. "You will not breathe a word to anyone about this. I want you to swear on your life and honour to not tell a living soul of Merlin's situation; do that, and you will have betrayed my trust."

By now, Lancelot's eyebrows have climbed higher than what should be humanly possible. "With all due respect, sire, I have no reason to betray a friend."

" _Swear_ , sir Lancelot!"

"…I swear on my life and honour and everything I hold dear that I will not reveal Merlin's secret to anyone," the knight finally says, looking at Arthur as though he's not completely sane. Again Arthur, being the kind and lenient prince he is, decides to overlook the impudence. He is, after all, asking Lancelot _(who is pretty much the definition of honour and such)_ to break the most fundamental law in Camelot.

"Excellent," Arthur says, pleased, before clapping them both on the shoulder and starting the journey back to Camelot. Between himself, Lancelot, and Gaius, he's certain they'll be able to help Merlin with his little magical mishap.

 **oOoOo**

Merlin and Lancelot watch Arthur's retreating back and the knight gives the warlock an unsure look. "Is he… Is he serious about looking for a cure?"

Merlin shrugs and walks over to the unconscious sorcerer to poke him in the side. "Sadly, yes."

"And… what will we do with the sorcerer?" Lancelot asks.

"I figured we'd just leave him," Merlin says as he continuously uses the toe of his boot to poke the sorcerer. "It's not like anyone's going to wonder what happened to him. Besides, I doubt he'll try to kill anyone again."

They stand in silence for a few more seconds before Lancelot clears his throat and a smile tugs at his lips. "I fear I've thought too highly of you, Merlin. I've found your ability to stay alive in Camelot impressive, but apparently it's not as hard as I thought."

"Lancelot, I clean the crown prince's room with magic. I fight by the crown prince's side using magic. You're pretty much the only one who's noticed except for Gaius – I'm actually a bit impressed."

"…You enchanted my lance to burn bright blue," Lancelot remarks slowly, as though speaking to a child. "Not even Arthur could miss such a thing."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Merlin, no."

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 **Thanks!**


	2. In which Aithusa is awesome

**Well goodness gracious, would you look at that? I'm back with another one-shot! Big, loving hugs to those who left me a review - it means a lot! This chapter contains mainly Merlin and Morgana, as well as a healthy dose of Aithusa - I'm not (and will never) be over Merlin and Morgana, and I prefer living in a world of denial compared to the actual canon of the show. Also shh, Aithusa totally likes Merlin, I swear.**

 **Disclaimer: Nope. Had I owned Merlin, it would have been an annoying everybody!lives!story.**

 **Set in an AU of season 5.**

 **Summary:** _ **"In which Aithusa actually fulfils the part about boding well for Albion , while Merlin and Morgana (reluctantly) reach an agreement."**_

* * *

If later asked, neither Merlin nor Morgana will offer an explanation regarding _why_ or even _how_ they _(no matter how reluctantly)_ decided to try to bury the hatchet. The keyword here is, of course, _try_ – but the point is that they actually **do** try.

The answer, however, isn't as complicated as one might think.

 **oOoOo**

Most of the time it's quite easy to hide the fact that he's a dragonlord _(it's not like there's a lot of dragons flying around about to reveal him)._ However, Aithusa promptly sitting down instead of turning him into ash in front of Morgana may have been quite an obvious hint. Morgana blinks and her hateful expression actually falters in order for the confusion to show.

"Aithusa?" she asks carefully, and the white dragon snorts in reply.

Merlin takes a few cautious steps forward _(he may or may not be about to take advantage of Morgana's distracted state to, well, make another attempt at her life)_ , only to be stopped by Aithusa swinging around to face him. She hisses out a warning at him but doesn't stand up again.

"She knows you," Morgana states and narrows her eyes at him. "How?"

"Um," Merlin says, and damn it, he really needs to work on his excuses because this is getting ridiculous. "She finds me very charming?"

"Try again."

"I may or may not have met her once or twice when she was a hatchling?"

Morgana looks distinctly doubtful. "How would the _king's_ servant come in contact with a dragon?"

Aithusa huffs and sends him a glare that, somehow, makes him reluctant to come up with any stupid lies _(Merlin decides to blame it on the fact that her glare clearly says "tell the truth or I swear I will sit on you until you do")._ "I sort of saved her egg from a collapsing tower and hid her from Arthur," Merlin blurts out, and immediately wonders why the hell he's standing around explaining himself to _Morgana_ of all people.

Aithusa looks very pleased and Merlin feels unexpectedly warm at her approval, which is something he will reflect on later _(or possibly never)._

"Really," Morgana says drily, and he can practically see the moment when she decides he's just not worth the trouble. He tenses as she raises her hand, incantation ready on her smirking lips –

And Aithusa releases a burst of burning flames _(neatly avoiding both Merlin and Morgana),_ followed by a growl directed at both of them. Despite her scrawny and crippled body the dragon manages to make Merlin feel more chastised than Kilgharrah's ever made him feel.

"Right," he says weakly. "No killing each other?" Aithusa nods and looks far, _far_ too smug than she has any right looking.

Morgana on the other hand looks like she'd rather swallow a sword dipped in acid than refrain from killing Merlin. "Aithusa, why on earth would I let him live?"

The young dragon moves forward and bumps her head against the witch's side, making a low, pitiful whine and… is she making puppy dog eyes at Morgana?

She is. And apparently, it seems to be working, because Morgana's eyes soften. Her eyes revert swiftly back to ice-cold when she looks back at Merlin and her lips curl into a sneer.

" _Fine_. He'll get to run back to his precious king once more."

Now Aithusa turns her big eyes towards _Merlin_ , and he's positively sure about what she wants. "Oh no," he says quickly. "We're not turning this into some kind of mutual, official truce; like it or not, Morgana is Camelot's number one threat."

He's pretty sure Aithusa rolls her eyes at him, before suddenly lunging towards him and swiping at his feet. In a matter of seconds he's on his back on the ground and the air leaves him in a whoosh and –

And Aithusa plunks down to sit on his chest.

Lords, he hadn't imagined her non-verbal threat. "Aithusa!" he squeaks and pushes feebly at her surprisingly heavy bulk. She stares down at him with a highly unimpressed expression on her face, and really, the only options Merlin has is to push her off with magic _(thus revealing his magic to Morgana)_ or command the dragon to release him _(thus revealing his dragonlord heritage to Morgana)_ or just… accept the truce.

…Damn it, considering his track record with secret-keeping, the choice is simple. He'll enter a truce with the witch – who, he's quite sure, is laughing somewhere in the background – and then trample his way back to Arthur. Stupid dragons.

 **oOoOo**

Three weeks pass before he sees Morgana again. As it happens, he's out in the woods picking herbs for Gaius _(really, he should know better than pick any more damn herbs for the man by now)_ when something smacks into his head, causing him to yelp and fall flat on his face in the bushes.

Considering he isn't dead or grievously wounded, he's pretty sure it's one of the knights who decided to join him _(in other words, Gwaine)._ He lifts his head from the ground, spits out a few leaves, and comes face to face with the hem of a black dress. He looks further upwards and meets Morgana's cold glare, and he scrambles to his feet with a curse.

"Morgana," he greets coolly when he's regained his balance and resists the urge to rub the tender bump on his head. He can see Aithusa lurking a few meters behind her, and _(assuming the dragon's still all for the truce)_ he allows himself to relax slightly.

"Merlin," she replies stiffly, and he marvels at her ability to make his name sound so vulgar and spiteful.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?" he asks sourly and Morgana cocks her head.

"You're a dragonlord," she states brusquely.

Merlin blinks. "Oh. Well. Whatever makes you say that?"

"It'd explain why you know Aithusa, why she would protect you, even the reason why she's hatched at all – legends say only a dragonlord can call a dragon from its egg. It fits."

"…Aithusa confirmed it, didn't she?"

"Yes."

Merlin sends Aithusa a pointed glare, which she in turn pointedly ignores. "Huh."

"You're practically magic yourself, and yet you look down at me for what I am," Morgana scoffs, and there's a lingering hurt in her eyes despite her sneer. "Oh, if Arthur only knew how close his little pet is to the thing he hates the most."

"…Right. Yes, absolutely. Magic and all… that."

This time Morgana actually rolls her eyes at him. "Please, I know you have no magic except for that. There's no way someone like _you_ could have magic; you're about as magical as the shoes you polish in Camelot."

"No magic," Merlin clarifies dutifully, and Aithusa snorts loudly, a thin trail of smoke puffing from her nostrils. He's pretty sure she's laughing at him, too.

 **oOoOo**

"You could command her to kill me."

Merlin looks up from the dishes he's washing in the brook, and _really_ , the knights are literally about twenty meters behind them, only hidden by the trees, and _still_ the damn witch shows up after weeks of her absence. A quick glance around them _(both with his eyes and his magic)_ proves that they're alone – not even Aithusa is with Morgana this time.

"I could," he answers mildly and continues scrubbing the dishes.

Morgana watches him in silence, only the brook's merry chortling and the sound of the knights' laughter breaking it. "Why don't you?"

"My, and here I thought we had an agreement to _**not**_ kill each other. Besides," he hesitates briefly "I'd never force her to kill her friend. Never."

Morgana hums noncommittally and stays with him for a few more minutes, before she leaves without a goodbye.

Soon they reach an unspoken agreement to not use Aithusa for their own purposes, or try to persuade her to choose between them.

 **oOoOo**

Eventually _(although surprisingly)_ Arthur finds out, first about Aithusa, and Merlin being a dragonlord, and then about Merlin's truce with Morgana _(Merlin's still not entirely sure which discovery made him more angry)._ It's not easy, especially not in the beginning, but with the help of some pointed _(and in some cases vaguely aggressive)_ prodding from Gwen, Gaius and the knights, he slowly starts accepting both Merlin and Aithusa.

Morgana is a different story.

She remains an enemy of Camelot, but sometimes – _sometimes –_ the two of them can hold an actual conversation for old time's sake, as brother and sister and past friends. Merlin doesn't know what to make of them, but he figures the Pendragon family's always been the definition of dysfunctional. At least, that's what Gwen tells him.

 **oOoOo**

Aithusa grows bigger, but neither warlock nor witch stops fussing over her.

"They're like a divorced couple*," Arthur has explained once, voice dry and mocking and more than a little amused. "Merlin is obviously the mother."

Merlin had briefly entertained the thought of getting back at Arthur for that comment by telling Morgana, but he knows she would throw a fit over _any_ implication of them being in a romantic relationship _(past, present, or even hypothetical),_ and well… He doesn't want to feed Morgana any more motivation to get Arthur killed.

Except for the king, queen, and a few trusted knights, no one really knows how or why the witch and the warlock decided to unofficially adopt a fire-breathing dragon _(no one really dares question them either)._

Said dragon is, no matter how unknown that fact is, the reason why Merlin and Morgana reluctantly stopped _seriously_ trying to kill each other. Because while the king might have been wrong about them being a couple, he certainly wasn't wrong about them being the parents of the young white dragon.

* * *

 ***** **Divorces were hardly a thing back then, but I'm giving myself the privilege of ignoring that.**

 **The offer regarding virtual cookies still stand - please leave a review! :)**


	3. In which everything is wrong

**Three one-shots in one week? Not bad. Big thanks to the wonderful reviewers; you had me skipping around smiling like a madman all day. This chapter is honestly not my fault - I asked a couple of friends if they had any ideas what I should write next and they...certainly had some ideas.**

 **Warnings: Crack-ish. Again.**

 **Summary: _I_** ** _n which Arthur finds himself_ _in a world where Uther loves magic, Gwaine never drinks, Merlin is a cynical brat, and Arthur himself wants to throw everyone out of a window._**

* * *

The first clue that something's wrong _(if you ignore the loud magical explosion that sends him flying through the air in the first place_ ) is that one second it's night, and in the next he's squinting in bright sunlight. Arthur finds it slightly sad that at this point, being magically transported through time isn't nearly as surprising as it should be.

The second clue comes in the form of his father. His very, very dead father, who now appears to be very, very alive. Arthur would start yelling if only he could remember how to breathe, because his lungs sure as hell aren't helping him right now.

"Arthur!" his father _(his_ _ **father**_ _)_ exclaims pleasantly, and if the fact that he should be dead doesn't convince Arthur it's not his father, the bright smile on the late king's face sure does. "Where have you been? I've had the servants looking all over for you."

Alright. He can't freak out just yet, he needs to gather what information he can find, so just… act normal. "I've been… around," Arthur answers lamely.

Uther harrumphs but doesn't question him further. "I've been meaning to ask you; as you well know, your mother's birthday is coming up and I would like your opinion on the matter of her birthday celebrations-"

" _Mother?_ " Arthur interrupts in an embarrassing shriek.

His father sends him a disapproving look. "Oh, don't tell me you've forgotten about your own mother's birthday."

"N-no, I just – I."

Uther sighs before letting go of the _subject (something his actual father never would have done, which is further proof that it's not his father)._ "Well, as I was saying –"

Just then a group of artists walk by, but instead of performing acrobatics or juggling, they're performing fully obvious illegal magical tricks. "Father!" Arthur cuts off and points at the sorcerers, and really, what are they _doing_ here in the first place? Do they have a death wish?

Uther turns his head to look, but instead of going red-faced and shouting profanities about the evil of magic, he… smiles. No really – Uther Pendragon, _smiling_ at a magical display _(that doesn't involve a magic-user being executed, that is)_. "Ah, yes," he says. "Those are the performers I hired for the feast in your mother's honour. Aren't they a good choice? I must say, they're a truly spectacular bunch – I asked for a little performance in advance, and you should have seen what the man to the second left was capable of –"

"B-but it's sorcery," Arthur splutters, and only receives a blank look in return. "What about the laws against magic?"

"Laws? Against _**sorcery**_?" Uther lets out a bark of laughter, disbelief colouring his voice. "What on earth are you talking about, Arthur? Are you feeling well?" He tries to put a hand against Arthur's brow, which makes Arthur skip backwards. "Do you need me to fetch Gaius?"

"I'm not – no, on second thought, visiting Gaius is probably a good idea, I'll leave right away," Arthur stammers and turns on his heel, practically sprinting towards the physician's chambers. If anyone would know what's going on, it'd be Gaius, and he really needs someone to explain this to him, right away.

He rounds a corner and promptly smashes into Merlin.

"Merlin!" he exclaims loudly, and feels alarmingly relieved at the sight of his servant. Only… only, as he drags the servant to his feet, he realizes it doesn't look like _his_ Merlin. For one, he looks _younger_ than he's supposed to, and although he's still slight he's not as painfully skinny as he usually is.

"Prince Arthur," not-Merlin greets drily.

"…What are you _wearing_?" Arthur asks, taking in the deep blue tunic, black breeches and shining boots – all _far_ too expensive-looking for a servant to wear. For god's sake, the man is wearing an equally expensive cloak.

Merlin purses his lips and his eyebrows draw together. "Forgive me if my outfit after travelling for _da_ ysisn't formal enough for you, _sire_ ," he replies icily and Arthur stares at him.

"That's not what I – never mind. Do you know what's going on here?"

"Pardon?"

"All," Arthur waves a hand around them in a vaguely hysterical gesture " _this_. What happened?"

"My, sire, if I didn't know better I'd say you'd already started celebrating your mother's birthday," Merlin deadpans.

Arthur slaps Merlin's arm and scowls. "I'm not _drunk_."

Suddenly he's shoved backwards, even though Merlin didn't move a muscle. "I'd appreciate if you'd refrain from disrespecting your guests," Merlin warns lowly and good god, what is _wrong_ with this alternate universe? Who decided it was a good idea to give _Merlin_ magical abilities?

"Ah, Merlin," a voice calls out, and Uther strolls down the corridor towards them, still with a ridiculously out of place smile on his face.

Merlin plasters on a stiff smile as though he's not used to smiling _(which feels like a slap in the face considering this is the man who_ _ **never**_ _stops smiling)_ and bows to the king. "Sire."

"Oh, none of that now," Uther chuckles and then –

Pulls Merlin into a heartfelt hug.

Arthur chokes on air and his eyes are dangerously close to popping out of his skull.

"It's been far too long," Uther continues warmly, still keeping a hand on Merlin's shoulder. "Tell me, is your father already here as well, or is it only you?"

"My father is here in Camelot, sire," Merlin replies politely. "He wanted to greet a friend before joining me in Gaius' chambers."

Uther nods and practically beams at the boy _(Arthur is starting to feel a bit sick from all the smiling)._

"As we wait, why don't you show us some magic? I remember you showing great promise as a young boy; already in toddler-age you performed magic tricks the magic performers would envy!"

Merlin's already stiff smile tightens, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "With all due respect, sire, my magic is hardly fit for royal company."

"Ah, nonsense," Uther cries. "No need to be so modest! All magic is a gift to be treasured, not hidden away by shyness or shame!"

"Uther!" someone shouts, and a tall man comes striding against them. The man looks familiar, and Arthur realizes with a jolt it's the dragonlord Balinor. His hair is still as long as it was then, but both hair and beards is carefully trimmed. Gone are the torn clothes and haggard appearance; in his place is a regal man fit enough for a king, and Arthur finally realizes that the lord in "dragonlord" concerns more than just their control over dragons.

"Balinor!" Uther yells back and meets the man halfway, giving even him a large hug. "It is good to see you again, old friend."

Balinor pins Merlin with a pointed look. "You're not giving the king or the prince any trouble, are you Merlin?"

"No, father," Merlin answers with a longsuffering sigh.

"Well then, if you have the king's permission, you better run along and go greet your uncle."

Merlin obeys with another swift bow and quickly disappears out of sight, while Arthur casually hyperventilates because not-Merlin called Balinor _father_. Balinor sighs and Uther gives him a knowing look.

"Children," he declares with a twinkle in his eye. "Don't worry; he'll grow out of it soon."

"I sure hope so," Balinor groans. "He's currently taking a stand against magic, for whatever reasons he has – for god's sake, the boy _is_ magic. If he doesn't grow out of this little rebellion I'm afraid Kilgharrah will squash him, dragonlord's son or not be damned. The a _rguments_ those two have…"

Uther makes a sympathetic noise. "We parents can't predict what foolishness our children will come up with – the sheer amount of stupidity _Arthur_ has committed over the years… Speaking of Arthur, shouldn't you be on your way to Gaius as well? You still look a little bit pale."

Arthur shakes his head with more force than strictly necessary. "No, no, I feel better already. I'll just… be on my way. Right now."

He hurriedly walks away from his not-father talking to not-Merlin's not-father, and keeps walking until he feels he's a safe distance away. He leans his face against the cool stonewalls and thanks the heavens that Camelot itself hasn't changed.

A hand taps his shoulder and he reluctantly turns to face whoever's been sent to torment him now. "You alright, sire?" Gwaine asks cautiously and Arthur allows himself to relax as he takes notice of the man's usual attire of a knight.

"You know what, Gwaine?" he says abruptly. "I'm in desperate need of a drink. Just this once, I will pay for your considerable amount of tankards of ale, as long as I just get to drink away this world."

Gwaine looks startled and more than a little uneasy, and Arthur feels dread rising up inside him before the knight's even opened his mouth.

"…I'm sorry, sire, but I'll have to say no. You know I don't drink."

Arthur let's out a small shriek of despair directed at the wrongness of this world, causing poor Gwaine to jump and look at him as though he's insane.

"But… But if you really want a drinking partner, I'll go find Lancelot, alright sire?" Gwaine soothes hurriedly.

"Lancelot?" Arthur whimpers. "Lord, the man never drinks more than one tankard – he can't hold his liquor, damn you, you're the one who never lets him live it down."

"Are… are we talking about the same Lancelot?"

Arthur storms off before he does something bad _(like pushing Gwaine out of a window or something equally tempting)_ and manages to hide for about an hour before someone finds him.

Said someone is Morgana, and he's got his sword pointed at her as soon as she enters his sight.

She looks down at the sword and then back up at him, before shrugging and coming to stand beside him to look out from the window. She's wearing one of her favourite green dresses, and the sight of her in something else than the black, ragged dress she wears now makes Arthur's throat tighten with grief. "Merlin's in his anti-magic rebellion stage," she complains, unaware of the inner turmoil raging through the prince. "I had hoped he'd take the time to teach me something new, and in return I'd teach him the new spells I learned last spring. Little brat. Last I saw him he was casting spells over everything and everyone, and now he looks down his nose at everything magical."

"Uh-huh," Arthur says, and comes to the conclusion that he can't stand being around his not-evil half-sister without wanting to bawl his eyes out. He needs an excuse to get away – before she continues a long rant about Merlin. "Where's Gwen?" he asks quickly.

"Gwen who?"

Arthur stares at her. "Gwen. You know, your servant Gwen. _Guinevere_."

Morgana's eyes finally light up in recognition. "Oh, _Gwen_. Arthur, are you feeling well? She hasn't worked for me in… the last six years now, I believe."

" _What?_ Why not?"

"…Well, let's face it; Gwen's… lovely, but she's hardly fit to be a maidservant. Some people just aren't meant to be servants, I suppose."

"So you just decided to _fire_ her?"

"She _quit_. She couldn't stand me, and made no effort to hide it. The woman might be the best seamstress in Camelot now, I buy my dresses from her for God's sake, but she's a bit of a sadist – Arthur, you _know_ this."

"A _sadist_ ," Arthur echoes in disbelief. He's not entirely sure what he's yelling later, but Morgana's bewildered expression is almost comical _(he forces himself to stomp away, because throwing Morgana out of the window is no better than throwing out Gwaine)._

 **oOoOo**

Arthur admits he's prideful. That doesn't mean he doesn't know how to admit defeat; and he admits he was defeated the moment he turned up in this godforsaken world. What he needs right now is to get back home, and in order to do that he'll need magic.

…Heaven help him, but he's going to ask a sorcerer for help _(yes, because_ _ **last**_ _time went so bloody well, what with his dying father and Dragoon)._ There is, however, one he thinks he can trust, even in this world.

"Merlin," he calls and drags the man into a nearby alcove _(it's dangerous to walk through Camelot's corridors – there are alcoves everywhere and lots of people who gladly take advantage of them)._ Perhaps he feels a bit petulant, because he'd purposely sneaked up behind him to scare him _(which gave him a bloody nose. Damn sorcery and jumpy Merlins)._

"What?" Merlin snaps and looks remarkably unsympathetic as he watches Arthur wiping blood from his nose.

"I need your help," Arthur snaps back.

Merlin visibly bristles. "I'm not one of your subjects, _my lord_. If you're in need of my help, you cannot _order me_ to help you."

" _Fine_. Could you **please** assist me with my little magical mishap?"

"I can't remember saying I was going to help you," Merlin sniffs and makes a move to walk away.

"Damn it – _I'm not Arthur_! Or, well, I **am** , but not the Arthur of this world."

"That's unfortunate."

"…That's it? _Unfortunate?_ Forgive me if I find the situation a bit more dire – I hardly believe world-switching is a good sign even here!"

"It's not," Merlin admits, still sounding entirely uninterested. "But Camelot has its own Court Sorcerer, and countless of other trusted magic-users; I don't see how I fit into your little accident."

"Despite your incompetence, I happen to trust the actual-Merlin back in my world," Arthur hisses. "And here I hear you're supposed to be powerful, and –"

"Well, maybe I don't want to be powerful," Merlin snarls and gives Arthur a small push backwards. "It's all do this Merlin, do that Merlin, oh look Merlin, can you do this Merlin, and bloody hell Merlin, you're Emrys! Do you know who Emrys is? No? Emrys is a bloody druid prophesy, and I've had e _nough_ of bloody prophesies and destinies! And my _father_ and his never-ending lessons regarding dragons – do you know how much dragons talk? They _never_ shut up."

Arthur blinks. "Wait, dragons talk?"

Merlin gives him a withering look, clearly questioning Arthur's intelligence once more. "Kilgharrah's the worst. Every time I see him he's sprouting crap about yet another damn destiny."

"Well… Destinies are…good, right?"

"No!" Merlin shouts. "Every time I do something I'm 'fulfilling my destiny'. I learn a new complicated spell? No of course it had nothing to with me working hard for it; it's all _your_ _ **destiny**_ _, young warlock_. I eat breakfast? It's my great, bloody destiny, and the porridge I ate has been written about since the dawn of time. And supposedly Mordred, my little brother, is supposed to turn into the ultimate evil and kill the 'once and future king', whatever that means. That one turned into a rather nice screaming match. I tried to strike him with lightning and he tried to fry me, and father gets angry at _me_ , and fully ignores the bloody great dragon saying his youngest son is some kind of devil spawn and trying to burn his other son." Merlin pauses briefly and sucks in a breath before continuing; "And when my first girlfriend, Freya, had to move away and I was heartbroken, he said it was her _**destiny**_ to go live in a bloody _**lake**_ her entire life. What the hell is that supposed to mean? And why the hell would I want to hear about lakes just then? Stupid overgrown lizard –"

"Wait," Arthur interrupts. "Are you saying you're having a so called anti-magic stage, effectively hurting your father and friends, just to piss off a giant dragon?"

" _Yes."_

"…Alright."

"Do you want me to keep going about the crap he tells me? Because _oh yes_ , sire, I can keep going."

"No, no, that's fine. Just. You wouldn't happen to want to break the anti-magic vow for a while, just to send me home?"

"I don't want to. Why don't you ask someone else?"

"Merlin," Arthur says through clenched teeth _(no throwing Merlin out of windows, throwing sorcerers out windows is bad)_. "If you don't send me back, I will stalk you for your entire visit – and don't even think about using magic against me, a guest attacking the king's son is bad for everyone involved. And believe me when I say you're not the only one who can be an annoying little shit – I'm more than capable of making you go mad."

"Oh, I believe you, sire."

Arthur slaps him over the head and Merlin enchants Arthur's hand to slap his own head as well. It takes a supreme effort to not throttle the sorcerer. "Fine, then," Arthur finally says and sighs deliberately. "I guess I'll just go ask Morgana instead, since she seems to be more advanced regarding sorcery."

Frankly, it's quite unbelievable _(not even the actual Merlin would fall for it_ ), but Merlin's eyes narrow at the obvious taunt. "Morgana is _hardly_ better at sorcery than I."

"No? Well, the way I hear it, you're only _supposedly_ good at magic, and that's just because an old, crazed dragon says so. I've seen no proof of it, and you obviously have no wish to continue studying magic – now if you'll excuse me, I must find the lady Morgana and inform her that you, in fact, couldn't help me."

"Wait," Merlin says and hurries after Arthur's retreating form.

"Nope, I don't want your help anymore," Arthur says and ignores Merlin attempts to stop him. "Morgana suggested I should ask for your help, but like I said, she's obviously a lot stronger than you."

"She is not!"

"And obviously more knowledgeable than you."

"No she isn't!"

"Not to mention better-looking."

"She – what does that have to do with anything?"

"As I was saying," Arthur continues. "Thank you, but you're free to go now."

Merlin scowls and puts himself in Arthur's way, placing a hand against his brow and Merlin's eyes turn into a brilliant gold.

"It's not even a difficult spell," Merlin scoffs dignifiedly and leans back after his examination. He takes a few steps backwards and cocks his head as he scrutinizes the prince.

"Well," Arthur sighs haughtily and inspects his nails. "I don't want you to exhaust yourself, so I'll just go –"

Golden light erupts from Merlin's eyes and his suddenly outstretched hands, and suddenly Arthur finds himself airborne once more.

He disappears into thin air and Merlin straightens from his crouch, feeling ridiculously pleased. Within seconds another Arthur appears in the spot where the wrong Arthur had disappeared, and immediately crashes to the floor. This Arthur is wearing different clothes and Merlin walks over to peer down at him.

Arthur groans and rubs his head. "…Merlin? Is that you?"

"Hello, prince Arthur," Merlin greets tartly.

The prince lets his head flop down to the floor again. "Considering you're here, I suppose that _wasn't_ a very strange, disturbing dream."

"We've had another Arthur walking around here," Merlin informs him and the prince groans pitifully again.

"It was awful. Both my parents were dead, _Gwaine_ was a drunk, Morgana was evil, and – and _you_ were my _manservant_."

Merlin chokes. "I was your _what_?"

"I _know_. At least you were a hell lot nicer there than you actually are – oh, and guess what? Sorcery is banned there; the punishment for sorcery is **death**. Who the hell thought that was a good plan? It's quite obvious that the not-Merlin there was a warlock, though – and no one there _knows_."

"Sounds marvellous," Merlin replies cynically and leaves the prince lying on the floor. His majesty can bloody well stand up without magical aid.

And what's that nonsense about _Morgana_ being a better sorcerer than himself? _As if._ Now he just has to find a way to s _ubtly_ challenge her to a magical duel.

* * *

 **The prompt my friend Canaryarcher gave me was quite simple: "Uther loves magic while Merlin hates magic". Angst or crack or both was my call. So I threw Arthur into an AU in her honour - you're welcome.**

 **Reviews equal oxygen, and I'm rather attached to oxygen - it's an important part of my life.**


	4. In which everything is wrong p2

**Since you people kindly encouraged me (emotionally blackmailed) me to write a little sequel to last chapter, I decided to be a kind and generous writer and actually listen to you (although according to my sister, it's just because I'm a ridiculous pushover). Anyway; I got a few suggestion regarding how I should continue it, and _eventually_ I just settled for this. Big, big thanks to those who reviewed last time!**

 **Warnings: Damn you, but it's crack-ish again.**

 **Summary: _In which Merlin is stuck with a very strange Arthur, and Gaius' chambers are ridiculously far away._** __

* * *

In Merlin's own defence, protecting Arthur from every magical threat is utterly, unbelievably, physically impossible. There's always someone out to kill him, and if no one's trying to assassinate him, the king is a victim to his own stupidity _(or just plain bad luck. Or destiny – who knows what kind of horrendous details Kilgharrah oh-so-kindly forgot to tell him)._

The point is that Merlin **cannot** be blamed for this.

He's not responsible for Arthur thinking it a good idea to **poke** the box that _**mysteriously**_ had shown up in his chambers, nor is Merlin responsible for not stopping him in time which, _oh,_ he would have been able to do, if it wasn't for the tiny little fact that _magic is banned_.

Instead he gets to watch in despair _(although it feels more like tired exasperation by now)_ as the box explodes, thus sending Arthur flying backwards. He's ready to sneakily cushion Arthur's fall _(but not too much, since the prat certainly deserves some pain for his own stupidity),_ when the king suddenly… disappears. Merlin blinks, and in the next second Arthur reappears and crashes to the floor. It happens so fast Merlin would have thought he's imagined it, if it wasn't for the fact that he's learnt to trust his own instincts.

The fact that Arthur has magically changed attire is also slightly suspicious.

Nonetheless, he can't leave the bloody king on the floor, so the warlock takes a few cautious steps closer, eventually crouching down to lightly pat Arthur's face.

"Arthur?" he asks carefully.

Arthur scrunches his nose and finally opens his eyes to squint up at him. It takes a few seconds for him to focus his eyes, and a worrying amount of outdrawn staring before even a small spark of recognition reaches his eyes.

"…Merlin? Is that you?"

"…Yes?"

Arthur sits up and slaps away Merlin's steadying hands. "What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Merlin stares at him in disbelief. "Um."

"And what on _earth_ are you _**wearing**_ _?_ "

"What am I – I'm wearing my _clothes_."

Arthur narrows his eyes at him and proceeds to fist a hand in Merlin's neckerchief, dragging him closer. Merlin yelps and barely avoids falling over the king.

"You're not Merlin," Arthur finally declares, and oh _hell_ , that can't be good.

"I think you might be a little bit confused, sire," Merlin says with a forced _(embarrassingly shaky)_ laugh. "You might have hurt yourself; let's go to Gaius, shall we?"

"I'm fine," Arthur dismisses and climbs to his feet, studiously neglecting helping Merlin to his feet _(nothing's changed there, then)._ "Although, I suppose we should fetch the Court Sorcerer. My first conclusion would have been that something's happened to you – and it's still a very believable possibility – but since I'm the one who was just magically transported through both time and place…" Arthur shrugs casually. "Well, _something's_ happened."

"I… Court sorcerer?"

Arthur rolls his eyes and sighs. "I get that you have this need to prove yourself and brag about your talents, but this is Camelot. And while I'm… _grateful_ for your willingness to help, this needs to be solved by a sorcerer of Camelot. Now; I'll try to make sense of what the hell's happened to you as soon as I've talked to my father –"

"Wait!" Merlin protests and blocks Arthur from exiting the chambers. "Arthur, I don't think it's wise for you to go anywhere right now."

"And why ever _not_ , Merlin?"

Merlin throws his hands up in the air. "I fully agree that something's wrong with you! How about we start with the fact that there _is_ no Court Sorcerer in Camelot?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur scoffs and steps around Merlin to slink through the door. "No Court Sorcerer – how the hell would we deal with any magical crises then, hm?"

Merlin swears under his breath and hurries after the crazed king. Although, he has to admit it's a rather clever enchantment; for once, it appears to be a sorcerer who only wants magic to be free again _(and god forbid it, without killing Arthur)._ He's almost a little tempted to let the enchantment do its work but… Well. Arthur's his friend, and sadly, letting the man remain under a spell for the rest of his life isn't exactly a friendly thing to do.

"Let's just go inform the king," Arthur says, still with that incredibly annoying patronizing voice.

"Inform the king?" Merlin repeats and he can feel a slightly hysterical laughter bubbling up inside of him. "Arthur, you _**are**_ the king."

At this, Arthur finally stops, and looks alarmingly pensive. He strides up to a nearby night guard, who hurriedly tries to appear as though he's not seconds away from falling asleep.

"Guard," Arthur says. "Who is the king of Camelot?"

The guard's eyes flicker towards Merlin, who shrugs helplessly. "Y-you are, sire."

Arthur hums and takes a step back, allowing the guard to relax slightly. "I see. Thank you." With that, he walks back to Merlin and fixes him with an intense stare. "Alright; no informing my father, then. How about my mother? And surely I, the king, am smart enough to have a bloody court sorcerer."

Ah, bloody hell. Merlin would rather not inform the man of both his parents' death right away. "Arthur," Merlin starts carefully. "Sorcery is illegal. There really isn't a Court Sorcerer here."

" _What_?" Arthur exclaims, disbelief colouring his voice. "What kind of bloody moron though that was – no. That's utterly ridiculous." The king turns back to the poor guard and calls out; "Guard! Is magic illegal or not?"

"H-highly illegal, yes, sire," the guard squeaks and Merlin feels sorry for the poor man. "On the pain of death, sire, of course, I –"

"Thank you," Arthur interrupts and continues striding through the dimly lit corridor. "Fine, then," he grumbles to Merlin. "I suppose I'll have to ask you to help me then."

"I – sorry?"

"Oh for god's sake," Arthur snaps. "I _know_ you're not obliged to help me, but would you kindly step down from your high horse for once? We're allies, you and I, and even though I'd rather not admit it, I know your magic's strong enough to –"

"I'm not a sorcerer!" Merlin protests _(and oh yes, the high-pitched panicky voice certainly sounds highly convincing)._

Arthur sends him an odd look. "Yes, I know, you're a _warlock_. Anyway, your magic –"

Merlin dives forward and slaps a hand over the king's mouth. "What part of _on the pain of death_ is it that you didn't grasp?" he hisses and hopes to god that no one heard Arthur's loud declaring.

"You'd actually be killed for being born with magic," Arthur says _(thankfully he had understood to lower his voice)_ , as though he realized what the guard had meant only now.

" _Yes._ Not to mention that an accusation of someone possessing magic is enough to get you killed; well, to be fair, the number of executions _have_ admittedly lessened since you turned king but –"

"That's outrageous!" Arthur cries. "What kind of bloody king am I, if I thought executing sorcerers was a good idea?"

"Well, to be fair, you don't really know any better. Since, um, your father sort of raised to believe that all magic is the ultimate evil and every ounce of magic corrupts."

"Wait; even a lass who'd conjure a flower is 'corrupted by evil'?"

" _All_ magic is the ultimate evil, Arthur. _All._ "

"…That's utterly ridiculous. Why on earth would my father teach me that magic is evil, anyway? Father is utterly delighted by all things of magic; I swear, every time he holds a feast he's like a giddy child because of the magic performers – are you alright?"

Merlin makes a squeaking sound to assure Arthur that he's alright, desperately trying to come to terms that this Arthur claims that _Uther Pendragon_ would _not_ hate magic. "He sort of blames magic for your mother's death even though that's not entirely fair but apparently he couldn't really deal with the grief and therefore saw it fit to begin a Purge to kill everyone and everything which consist of even a tad of magic," Merlin blurts out in one breath, instantly regretting it as Arthur's face turns heartbroken.

"Mother's dead?" he asks and Merlin makes another noncommittal squeaking noise and gently ushers the King towards Gaius' chambers. He only needs a few minutes to collect himself before continuing his unofficial interrogation; "…Merlin?"

"Yes, sire?"

"…How on earth did my not-father kill all the sorcerers here? I mean… they had _magic_."

"…That's an excellent question."

 **oOoOo**

As it is, getting to Gaius' chambers turns out to be ridiculously hard. Merlin's sure the castle's never been this big before, and this Arthur-but-not-actually-Arthur is doing his best to slow down the process by questioning _everything_.

Gwaine showing up probably doesn't help. The knight's drunk – which hardly qualifies as a surprise – but Arthur's bewildered concern is certainly something new. He spends a few minutes ranting at both Merlin and Gwaine _(who by now has slung an arm around Merlin's shoulders, insisting that the stone walls are too cold to lean against)._

"Mind telling me what the hell's up with princess?" Gwaine asks in a stage whisper, only a slight slur to his voice.

"He's… concerned about his knights' ability to stay committed to their duties?" Merlin suggests weakly. Gwaine guffaws as though Merlin's just said something hilarious, and Merlin's not sure if he's actually wasted or just decided to piss off Arthur.

"This is hardly a laughing matter," Arthur says sternly. "Sir Gwaine, what's happened to your self-proclaimed oath to not drink?"

Gwaine frowns. "Just how drunk was I when I said such a thing?"

Merlin breaks up their discussion by giving the knight a light push towards his own chambers, intending to let him stumble his way towards his bed and a good night's rest. Sadly, Merlin's cursed kindness _(or according to Arthur, the fact that he's a pushover)_ means he instead escorts _(drags)_ Gwaine to his room, Arthur a grumpy shadow at his heels.

"But Gwaine literally never drinks," Arthur moans in despair as they've finally dumped Gwaine in his chambers.

"You and I seem to live in **very** different worlds," Merlin remarks mildly as he _(once again)_ steers them towards Gaius' chambers. "Besides, Gwaine doesn't drink as much as he used to."

Arthur grunts and they walk in a few seconds of blessed silence, before;

"Why don't we contact your father?"

It's only thanks to years of practice of listening to magic being spat at that prevents Merlin from doing a face plant and strangling himself with his own neckerchief. "What?"

"Your father's an intelligent man, and well learned in magical matters."

"Wait, wait; who do you think my father is?"

"Balinor, the dragonlord, of course."

The continued silence speaks for itself, and there's a slight widening of Arthur's eyes and he looks pained. "Please don't tell me the dragonlords were targeted as well."

Merlin clears his throat. "My father's dead," he states simply, neither denying nor confirming Arthur's claim _(he's slightly grateful that this Arthur is just as emotionally incompetent as the actual Arthur – Merlin really can't handle any condolences right now, even though it's been years since his father died)._ At least the mention of Balinor's death makes the silence seep in between them until they finally _**(finally)**_ reach Gaius.

To say that the physician is displeased to be woken in the middle of the night is an understatement _(lords, the man can be dangerously grumpy when he has to rise),_ but he's proper enough to get up in the presence of his king _(even though it's not exactly his king for the moment, but Merlin's going to let the poor man get out of bed before dropping that particular bombshell on him)._

The physician doesn't even seem a little bit shocked to hear of Arthur's magical mishap, but since this is Camelot and Camelot has weekly magical mishaps, it's hardly strange.

"And what of the box?" Gaius asks as Merlin's finished explaining the situation.

"What box?"

Gaius sends him a _look_ which clearly questions whether Merlin was gifted with a brain or not. "The _magical box_ that caused this mess in the first place, Merlin."

"Oh," Merlin says. " **Oh**."

The warlock jumps up with a curse and sprints back to the king's chambers _(after sharply telling said king himself to stay right where he is)._ The journey is thirty times faster without Arthur slowing him down, and Merlin neatly avoids Percival wandering the corridors _(gods know what the man's doing up in the middle of the night, but Merlin really doesn't have time for any friendly conversation right now)._

Arthur's looking decidedly out of place sitting by the physician's table as Merlin returns, but neither physician nor magician pay him any heed. Gaius takes one look at the box before sighing.

"It is as I feared. It's a fairly simple spell if you have the knowledge of it, used to transport objects between different places – and if tampered with, even temporarily break the veils between different worlds. It was, however, only used by the high priestesses of the old, since they were the only ones trusted with such a thing."

Merlin groans. "And just how many high priestesses do we know that would gladly throw Arthur into an alternate universe?"

"Exactly," Gaius agrees grimly. "Morgana is at work here."

At this, Arthur perks up. "Morgana? Did she finally become a High priestess?" he asks, sounding genuinely… _happy_ for her. Merlin has to remind himself that _right_ , Arthur is not a nay-sayer regarding magic right now.

"I guess you could say that," Merlin grimaces.

"Oh no," Arthur warns with a glare. "I do _**not**_ want to hear any ridiculous claims regarding Morgana; it's bad enough that you're dressed as a peasant and Gwaine's a drunk – what are you going to say next, Guinevere's a princess?"

"Actually, she's the Queen."

"Shut up, Merlin."

"Sire," Gaius interrupts smoothly. "Offensive claims or not, Morgana is the last high priestess in our world: this is definitely her doing."

"Oh?" Arthur continues to look alarmingly amused. "What the hell did not-me do this time, in order for her to fling not-me into another universe?"

"She's… not exactly a friend of this Camelot, sire."

"More like she's hell-bent on killing all of us all the time," Merlin adds helpfully.

Gaius cuffs him lightly over the head. "What Merlin is trying to say is that our Morgana is not one of childish games or kind actions anymore. The ban against magic and the slaughter of her kind has turned her bitter and spiteful; a far cry from the woman she once was."

Merlin doesn't really know how Gaius' line was any kinder than Merlin's own, but he supposes it was said with more…class. And delicacy, or something.

Arthur resembles a kicked puppy at this point and Merlin feels like fetching Gwen so she can give him a hug _(only, it doesn't seem like this Arthur is overly fond of not-Gwen, and he can't exactly drag Morgana to Camelot to give not-Arthur a bloody hug)._ "I see," he says meekly.

"Well," Merlin says loudly and slumps down in a seat across the table – anything to distract Arthur and get that god-awful heartbroken expression away from his face. "So; anything interesting to tell us about your universe? If nothing else, it'd give me something to mock Arthur about."

Arthur sends him a dry look. "I'm not sure how I feel about working against the other me. However; _you_ , on the other hand, are very different. I like you better here – I haven't seen the actual you in a couple of years, but you're a… _brat_. Plus you like to enchant everyone around you just to brag."

"Not very likeable then, am I?"

Arthur snorts. "I wouldn't say that. Morgana finds you strangely endearing, and father practically _**adores**_ you –"

Merlin promptly falls off his chair.

"W-what?" Merlin splutters.

"…Like I said, father loves magic. Our fathers are old friends, and I'm pretty sure my father unofficially adopted you when you were just an infant –"

"Alright stop!" Merlin shouts. "That is – that's really disturbing. Please stop."

Arthur steps away from his own seat and actually drags Merlin to his own feet. "Forgive me for asking, but considering your father's… absence, and your peasant clothes, just what is your status here?"

"I'm your servant; why? Just what do I do in _your_ universe?"

Arthur splutters. "My _servant_?"

"As fascinating as this must be," Gaius interrupts again _(over two decades of handling Uther has made him ridiculously good at interrupting politely)._ "I'm afraid we really ought to start looking for a way to make this right again."

"Of course," Arthur agrees quickly. "I believe –"

Arthur disappears into thin air.

Merlin blinks. Gaius doesn't even bother raising an eyebrow at this point.

…And Arthur's back, crashing to the floor in a spectacular heap.

"Hey, Arthur?" Merlin asks warily. "Is this the right you, or is it the wrong you?"

The king's eyes open and his hand shoots out to curl around Merlin's ankle, nearly yanking him off balance. "You know," Arthur starts. "I don't think I've ever been this happy to see that stupid neckerchief of yours."

"I'm rather fond of my neckerchief as well, thank you."

"…That was insane," Arthur informs them without moving a muscle to get up from the floor. "Everything was wrong and highly disturbing; Lancelot was a drunk, Morgana was nice, my father loved magic – and believe it or not, Merlin, but someone was actually stupid enough to not only make you the son of a dragonlord, but also give you _magical abilities_."

"Sounds marvellous," Merlin replies tiredly and tugs his ankle away from Arthur's grip. The prat can bloody well get his royal arse off the floor without any help from Merlin. Right now he's got a bed calling for him.

* * *

 **Aaand done (like, for real this time).** **I hope to publish a new chapter soon - considering I'll spend about 10 hours on a train tomorrow, I'll have more than enough time to write!**

 ** _Psst._ Guys, I repeat; _ten_ hours. Stuck in a train with two of my moronic (lovable) friends. Please be a dear and save the day by leaving a review? :)**


	5. In which Sir Gwaine makes a choice

**Gosh, thank you so much for the response regarding last chapter! You really made the train-ride a dozen times better - as a token of my gratitude, I actually spent quite some time writing.**

 **Admittedly, this is not what I wrote on the train - I was writing another humour!fic, when I suddenly had a moment of realization; you people have been far, _far_ too happy. Let's give you some freaking angst instead. Therefore, this was born and I was very excited, sat down to write, and then. Well. Realized my angst-writing-muscles have been left to rust a bit (strange, considering all I wrote last year was angst). See this chapter as me taking my angst-writing-skills for a test ride.**

 **Summary: _In which Gwaine learns of Merlin's magic, and reacts in a most unexpected way._**

* * *

Gwaine makes sure to wear his brightest smile as he slams through the doorway, effectively startling Merlin and making him drop the armour he's polishing.

"Merlin, my friend," he booms and drops down to sit next to the servant. "'tis I, sir Gwaine, your knight in shining armour, who has come to rescue you from the dreadfully awful princess King."

"Alas, I appreciate the rescue attempt," Merlin replies, an amused grin lightning up his face. "But I fear the attempt was for naught, since I really, _**really**_ need to finish my chores today."

Gwaine unceremoniously drags the armour from Merlin, ignoring his protests, and then proceeds to lock his arms under Merlin's and pull him to his feet. "Unfortunately for you, the handsome sir Gwaine saves all in need, even ungrateful little servants who don't appreciate the effort."

Merlin resists half-heartedly as he's pulled out from the room but laughs nonetheless. "Well then, since you're such a brave and noble knight, I assume you will take the fall for me when Arthur realizes I haven't done my chores."

"Lords, Merlin, you have to take responsibility for abandoning your duties, not pile the blame on others."

"I'm fairly certain I'm being _kidnapped_ from my duties."

"Don't be ridiculous," Gwaine sniffs and continues dragging Merlin along.

"At least tell me where we're going," Merlin tries and trips slightly as he hurries after Gwaine _(who pointedly refuses to let go of Merlin's wrist)._

"I thought you said you were being kidnapped? A kidnapper does not reveal the location to the abducted victim."

Merlin grumbles something nasty under his breath, which Gwaine kindly pretends to not hear. "Fine," the servant says with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm willingly being kidnapped. Now where are we going?"

"We, my friend, are going on a," Gwaine imitates the sound of trumpet blasts _(if Merlin's facial expression is to be believed, it doesn't really resemble any trumpets)_ " ** _picnic_**. I've got as basket and all, food from the kitchen –"

"Stolen from the kitchen."

"- as well as some fine alcohol. I thought about saddling the horses in advance, but I decided to not overdo it, if you get what I'm saying."

"Is there a particular reason why we're going on a picnic?" Merlin asks as they enter the stables and begin to ready their horses. "You haven't done something stupid, have you? If you're apologizing in advance, I'd like to know what you're apologizing for – oh, I will murder you if you've told Arthur about the tavern last –"

"Your lack of faith in me hurts me," Gwaine sighs and puts a hand over his heart.

"Too little faith in you has never been an issue," Merlin remarks fondly, and Gwaine's gut twists even as his mouth forms another smile. "But really; why a picnic?"

Gwaine shrugs. "I'd say we both deserve a nice, long break. Princess has had you working non-stop, and I'd like to get you out of Camelot before he finally manages to get you killed."

 **oOoOo**

They ride for an hour before Gwaine decides they've reached an acceptable picnic place. The sun is shining bright on a cloudless sky, and the world is waking up after a long and hard winter. The green buds on the trees are extending towards the light and the grass is soft, the dampness from the morning already gone.

Merlin lets himself drop down next to an oak tree and sprawls on the grass, contently stretching his arms skywards. Gwaine plunks down as well and takes a good swig of alcohol. Merlin cheerily starts humming under his breath and the knight pulls a freshly baked _(freshly stolen)_ pie from the food basket. He rants good-naturedly about the marvel of apples and apple pies and proceeds to tell one of his many stories to fill the silence, Merlin patiently listening.

The pie is fit for a king _(and by right, since it's taken from the royal kitchens)_ and Gwaine idly wonders why he hasn't sneaked more pies from the cook before. He wordlessly holds out a separate wineskin to Merlin, who wrinkles his nose slightly.

"You know fully well I'm not that fond of ale," he chides lightly.

"Maybe not – shame on you for that, by the way – but you _do_ occasionally like wine."

Merlin groans. "Please tell me you didn't steal that from Arthur; you _know_ he'll blame me."

"It's your favourite," Gwaine sing-songs. "Besides, I seriously doubt the princess will care to worry about any damn wine missing."

"Which Arthur are _you_ talking about?" Merlin mutters, but gladly snatches the wineskin from Gwaine's hands.

Gwaine leans back against the tree and closes his eyes, enjoying the sunshine playing across his face. They sink into a comfortable silence, although Gwaine's muscles remain tense beneath his clothes. He waits pensively, and soon Merlin starts breathing in little hitches.

"Gwaine," he calls nervously, a fumbling hand latching onto Gwaine's sleeve. "Gwaine, I think something's wrong."

"Oh? What's that?" Gwaine asks quietly, still without opening his eyes, the knuckles of his hand holding his wineskin whitening.

"I can't – I don't – Gwaine, don't drink that, I think…"

Gwaine takes another long sip, relishing in the burn that tears down his throat from the strong alcohol. Merlin's voice tatters out and the grip he has on Gwaine's sleeve slacks.

"Gwaine?" he repeats shakily. "Gwaine, did you…"

The knight forces himself to open his eyes, and something in them must have screamed out the truth, because Merlin instantly lets go, scrambling backwards in horrible disbelief.

"I'm sorry," Gwaine croaks, tears blurring his sight, and he reaches forward to catch Merlin's flailing wrists. "I know. Merlin, I _know_."

About the magic. Magic, sorcery, witchery, he _knows_ , and he…

"No," Merlin breathes, shaking his head and trying to tug his hands away. His eyes are wide and betrayed, and he doesn't look like a hateful dangerous sorcerer, he looks young and terrified and heartbroken and… "No, no no no no, you… not… _Gwaine_. I've never – I've never betrayed Camelot, I, I…"

"I'm sorry."

Panic gives everyone a boost of strength, and Merlin's eyes flare gold and Gwaine's pushed backwards _(he knows that Merlin could defeat him without lifting a finger, but the hemlock poison has made his magic weaken, turn groggy and disoriented, and in turn make him about as defenceless as a new-born kitten)._ Merlin scrambles backwards again, but the poison doesn't even let him get to his feet, let alone get away.

"I'm so sorry," Gwaine repeats brokenly and surges forward again, wrapping his arms around the struggling sorcerer, grimly holding him down, ignoring the fists weakly pushing at his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it'll be quick, I promise, it won't hurt, it'll be fine, I'm sorry," he hushes, voice cracking.

He keeps one hand threaded through the boy's black hair, gently keeping his head leaning against the crook of Gwaine's neck _(he doesn't want to see the betrayal painted on his face, lips parting in desperate want of air, doesn't want to see the light leave his eyes)._ The hands pushing against his chest leave and resolve to claw at Merlin's throat in one last desperate attempt to draw air.

There are no final grand speeches, only a few other small _(small and weak and terribly scared)_ utterances of _no_ and a raspy, whispered version of the knight's name, before Merlin's body spasms in his arms. Gwaine tightens his hold further and buries his face in the sorcerer's _(his friend's)_ hair.

A final twitch, a choked off gasp, and Merlin finally stills.

Time seems to freeze with him, before Gwaine breaks it by letting out a sharp sob. A keening sound like a wounded animal fills the clearing, and he bends over the still body of his friend, curling around him as though to keep him from harm. Whereas Merlin's last breaths had been small, hitching gasps, Gwaine breathes in stuttering, heaving sobs until he's almost sure he'll follow Merlin into death by his own lack of air.

"I'm so sorry," he echoes hoarsely as he eventually manages to calm down. He reluctantly straightens up and looks down at Merlin _(he bites the inside of his cheek so hard he's sure he tastes blood)._

His friend's face, while happy and carefree in life, is none of those in death. It's frozen in a mix of terror and grief and complete disbelief _(and it might be the disbelief that hits him the hardest, the disbelief he had felt at the thought of_ _ **Gwaine**_ _, the one who's always stuck by him no matter what, being the one to poison him)._ His eyes are still open, blue and wide and pained, already glazed over in death. He died within minutes.

 _(He died with the knowledge that his friend chose to kill him.)_

"I won't tell," promises, so quietly it's barely heard. There's no way in hell he'll let anyone remember the beloved, kind serving boy who greeted everyone with a smile, as a cruel and vengeful sorcerer. He won't let them, even though he knows what his death will do, to Merlin's mother, to Gaius, to Arthur and Gwen and Percival and Elyan and Leon and the kitchen girl who sneaks food to Merlin and the stable boy who adores him all the other countless friends Merlin's made in Camelot – after all, the boy is _(was)_ awfully likeable, managing to make friends instantly everywhere and with everyone _(Gwaine should know)._

 _(The thought of Merlin, kind, loveable Merlin, turning into a cold-hearted and hateful sorcerer, become like Morgana, is impossible to imagine, yet it still fills him with unnameable terror.)_

He might not know if Merlin's magic was learned or if it had manifested in him, doesn't know if he would have been corrupted or not, but he does know that he wouldn't have managed to hide it forever; sooner or later he would have been caught _(his death will ruin Arthur, but at least he didn't have to land the killing blow. Gwaine doesn't have that luxury)._

"I'm sorry," Gwaine murmurs yet again, gently closing Merlin's unseeing eyes. He grasps his friend's cold face with both hands and presses a tender kiss atop his forehead. "But I couldn't watch you burn."

He reaches for Merlin's still half-full wineskin and finally shifts his gaze away from Merlin to look at the poison that killed the best friend he's ever had.

It's a much, much kinder death than the pyre Arthur would have given him.

* * *

 **...So.**

 **Hemlock, eh? Looks like Merlin got a taste of his own medicine, am I right?...ahem. Fine, don't laugh, I'm sure Morgana would have found it funny, nevermind.**

 **Lots of A/N this time but anyway; reason for this plot bunny? You know all these countless magic!reveal fics - Arthur has countless of different reactions, but Gwaine? I have literally _never_ seen him react badly, because he's... _Gwaine._ (please don't get me started on how much I love that though) He's always the one to not give a damn about the ultra-mega-evilness-of-magic and defend Merlin like a mother bear with her cub. So... here, have the one Gwaine who broke character and thought it was a fucking good idea to kill Merlin.**

 **Pretty please give me a review? I can give you more virtual cookies as well as a happier chapter?**


	6. In which dresses are complex things

**And as promised, you shall receive a happier chapter this time. Big thanks and hugs to those who reviewed; it means a lot!** **Now. This is the thing that I started writing on the train (because obviously this is the first thing you think of when you're on a train), and the plot bunny just sort of did whatever the hell it felt like doing.**

 **Warnings for, um. General stupidity, crack-ishness, and slight discussion of hypothetical female anatomy? **

**Summary: In which the knights of Camelot are masculine, manly men, and Merlin's generally done with them all.**

* * *

"No," Merlin says flatly, voice cold and hard. "No; absolutely not."

"I'm not asking, Merlin, I'm ordering," Arthur shoots back and Sir Leon suppresses a loud sigh. They've been arguing back and forth for the last thirty minutes, and Arthur's nearing his wits' end _(they all are, honestly. Merlin included. Maybe even especially Merlin)._

"Arthur, when I say I'd do anything for you and Camelot I don't mean anything as in _literally_ anything."

"So you're saying you're not loyal to your king and kingdom?"

"I'm _saying_ there are _**limits**_ to what I'll do, you absolute nincompoop!" Merlin snaps and Leon knows someone else must put an end to their fight _(it's not like they'll do it on their own)._ A quick glance towards the other knights offers him no help – Gwaine makes a few meaningful hand gestures clearly stating that Leon gets to handle this by himself.

"Well how else do you propose we'll get in there?" Arthur continues shouting, hands thrown up in the air. "It is your duty to defend –"

"Technically it isn't," Merlin interjects smugly. "Just as you like to remind me, I'm _not a knight_. I'm not honour-bound to do anything since I'm just a servant: my line of duty – or rather my job requirement – doesn't extend to infiltrating camps, which _knights of the realm_ themselves can't get into."

"Your _**job requirement**_ is to do what I tell you, you pesky little –"

"My lord!" Leon finally shouts, and then blushes slightly as Arthur turns an incredulous glare towards him. "Forgive me for the interruption, sire, but regardless of Merlin's refusal to follow this particular plan, we must act soon – before it's too late."

"I know!" Arthur cries. "And if anyone has a better plan – or another plan at all – I'd be delighted to hear it!"

And therein lies the problem, doesn't it? "Merlin," Leon begins. "I'm not… unsympathetic to your situation, but sometimes a… sacrifice regarding dignity and pride is a necessary evil. After all, you're not the first man who, in the line of duty, has… er."

"Leon," Merlin replies drily. "There's hardly a need to be so poetic about crossdressing. Oh, and if it's so noble, why don't one of you oh-so-manly and masculine knights disguise yourself as a woman and go in there?"

"Well," Elyan coughs. "There **is** that part about manly and masculine that you mentioned."

Merlin throws him a withering glare and crosses his arms. "I won't do it. There's no way in hell I'd pass as a woman anyway– make Gwaine do it instead, at least he's got the hair for it."

Gwaine grins and waggles his eyebrows at Merlin. "I'd be a fantastic woman."

"See?" Merlin exclaims. "Sir Gwaine volunteers!"

"Gwaine's not slight enough," Arthur remarks _(studiously ignoring said knight's outraged, high-pitched "are you calling me_ _ **fat**_ _?")._ "Besides, you're by far the smallest of us."

Leon kindly neglects to mention that Merlin is taller than both Elyan and Gwaine as well as Arthur himself. Merlin on the other hand has _(obviously)_ no qualms about very colourfully informing the king of that.

"You're skinny," Arthur corrects himself dismissively. "At least we can fit you into a dress – Gwaine's shoulders are too wide, no matter how much his hair resembles a woman's. Additionally," he adds pointedly "you have some experience regarding dresses and crossdressing –"

" _What?_ " Merlin shrieks _(and there's a story behind that too, but Leon's not sure he wants to hear it)._

"Merlin," Percival suddenly calls out _(the man seems to possess an almost unearthly ability to get others to calm down)."_ Those women are the only ones who might know anything about Morgana, and they won't talk to any men. We **need** that information." An amused smirk spreads over the knight's face. "Will it help if I promise we won't laugh?"

 **oOoOo**

Percival's promise, however, turns out to be empty. Granted, they manage to stifle their laughter into choked off chuckling _(hyper-masculine high-pitched giggling, according to Merlin_ ), but that's about as far as it goes. Somehow they've gotten hold of a quite elegant blue dress _(Leon pointedly forgets to ask where the hell the dress came from)_ and while the knights seem quite proud of themselves, Merlin remains stonily unimpressed.

"Oh, cheer up, mate," Gwaine says lightly and more than a little gleefully. "The colour truly brings out your eyes."

"How about I bring out the colour of your intestines?" Merlin mutters darkly and reluctantly yanks off his shirt, already reaching for the dress.

Arthur tsks and slaps away his hands. "Honestly Merlin, considering you're such a girl I'd have thought you'd know more about a woman's attire." The king nods towards another object which makes Merlin pale _(given his already pale skin it's a little bit worrying)._

"…you are _**not**_ putting me in a corset," the servant deadpans in a strangely deadly voice.

It takes several more precious minutes of squabbling _(and a considerable amount of coaxing from Percival)_ before Merlin's shoulders slump in defeat.

Then they realize the tiny little fact that none of them actually are that knowledgeable about women's clothing. Women dress themselves, and noble women with their fancy attires have maidservants to help them dress. Never one to back down from a challenge, Gwaine assigns himself as Merlin's temporary maidservant.

"What's the point of complaining about me being skinny," Merlin gasps as Gwaine tightens the corset "if you're only going to try to make me even skinnier?"

"The skinniness isn't the main issue right now," Arthur replies. "It's rather your distinct lack of curves."

"Well sire," Merlin huffs with a slight jeer. "If you wanted someone with fat to spare you should have dressed up yourself instead."

Arthur's eyes narrow. "Gwaine, you're doing a horribly sloppy job. Step aside and let Sir Percival take over for a while, why don't you?"

 **oOoOo**

"Well," Elyan says after Percival _(and his ridiculously big biceps)_ steps away from his handiwork. "At least now you've got a tiny waist any woman would be jealous of."

"Trust me," Merlin wheezes. "This is nothing to be jealous of."

"Honestly you look quite absurd," Arthur remarks.

"Thank you, sire."

"Now what are we going to do about his very obvious lack of lady-parts?"

"Oh Elyan, you sly dog you. I hardly think Merlin's going to be in need of his lady parts for –"

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Gwaine; you know damn well I wasn't talking about his southern lady-parts."

"Southern? Really? Who talks like that?"

"Please stop talking about my non-existent lady-parts," Merlin pleads.

Arthur throws the dress at him. "I suppose we can shove some neckerchiefs down his neckline or something. Let's just get him into the bloody dress first."

See, the thing is, the noblewomen's maidservants actually _know_ how to dress someone _(it's a rather important job requirement if you're a noblewoman's personal servant)._ Gwaine, temporary self-proclaimed maidservant or not, does not have these skills. Percival and Elyan are happy to assist said temporary maidservant, but somehow they only manage to make things worse. In the end, Merlin ends up tangled in the dress with both arms pinned to his body, and good lord, Leon doesn't understand how managed to do that.

"Oh for pity's sake," Leon snaps after their third failed attempt. "It's a _dress_." With that he strides forward, makes shooing gestures towards the other knights and briskly takes over the procedure of getting the servant into the godforsaken dress. Within minutes Sir Leon has succeeded where three other knights failed, and he allows himself a moment of smug satisfaction.

Gwaine coughs. "So; is there a reason why you, manly masculine knight that you are, can work out the complex mystery of a dress?"

"I have four older sisters," Leon deadpans. "And, unlike you lot, I happen to actually be gifted with some intelligence."

Since Leon solved the Dress Problem, he sees no fault in turning a blind eye towards the other knights attempting to solve the, ahem, Lack of Bosom Issue. After several minutes of cursing and prodding and death-threats, Gwaine has actually managed to give the skinny servant an, er… appropriate illusion of a bosom.

When they've finally gotten a headscarf tied over Merlin's head in order to hide his hair _(after witnessing Percival's attempt at tying the scarf, Leon had to interfere again in order to avoid disaster),_ Leon has a moment where he actually thinks that _bloody hell_ , _this might just actually_ _**work**_.

Merlin throws his hands up in a dramatic gesture, takes one step forward – and his legs immediately get tangled up in the dress, causing him to make a spectacular fall and land in a crumpled heap.

"Ow," Merlin moans pathetically and Percival, gentleman that he is, hauls him to his feet again.

"In retrospect, we probably should have thought of his clumsiness," Arthur sighs and drags a hand through his hair.

"I second that," Merlin pipes up. "So let's just skip this plan, shall we?"

"Don't be ridiculous. It's not like clumsiness is solely specified to the male specimen; now shoo. Go… gather some information."

They push him in the general direction of the small fort where only women are allowed entrance _(Gwaine waves Merlin's scarf as a handchief and sniffs something about his little daughter growing up),_ giving small grins of encouragement. Said encouragement isn't appreciated by Merlin, who merely throws another withering glare over his shoulder as he strides _(stumbles)_ towards the fort.

Leon's not going to admit it, but he himself was far, _**far**_ better at walking in a dress than Merlin is _(he's also not going to admit that he feels quite smug about it)._

The daylight slowly fades away and the knights are growing restless. Sitting around in the woods all day isn't particularly exciting, and Merlin sure is taking his sweet time. The servant shows up when the evening has turned to night _(effectively scaring the crap out of Gwaine, who was the current on guard duty),_ looking more than a little pleased and wearing a broad grin.

"Wait," Arthur says as Merlin's finished his report. "You spent an entire **day** in there – while we were freezing out here in the woods, I might add – and the only information you've got for us is that those women do _**not**_ know anything about Morgana?"

"That's pretty much what I just said, yes."

"Really? You got **no** other information to give us?"

"Nope."

Arthur throws a stick at Merlin. "You may have been good at going undercover as a woman, but good lord, what were we thinking when we thought **you'd** be an ideal inside man?"

"To be fair, sire, there's no way I could have gotten any information about Morgana if they didn't _have_ any information about Morgana."

"Shut up, Merlin."

Merlin gives him an exaggerated bow before whirling around _(this time without falling),_ making the blue dress swirl around his legs. If nothing else, Leon muses, at least he's learnt how to walk in a dress.

 **oOoOo**

In truth, Merlin lied. But since this is hardly an unusual occurrence, he doesn't waste time dwelling on it or feeling guilty.

For instance, he'd rather not have the king of Camelot know that there's a fort full of sorceresses _(because while he's not Uther, a fort filled with magic-users might make him a tad uneasy)._

They were truly lovely people, though! Because of the enchantments surrounding the fort his disguise didn't stand a chance, but apparently the women immediately recognized him as Emrys _(apparently being Emrys means gender boundaries mean nothing)._ They were more than happy to discuss Morgana and magic and spells and magical lore, and lords, Merlin's never been surrounded by that many magic-users at once, and he had felt _fantastic_. There were plenty of people who wished to talk to him about just about anything; Margaret, a young witch from Mercia, complimented his dress _(he was almost a little bit guilty when he couldn't say where it was bought)_ but advised him not to wear a green headscarf along with a blue dress.

Since it'd be suspicious to return to the knights immediately, he decided to stay longer _(plus, he reasoned, they deserve a little punishment for all the teasing and torment they give him on regular basis)._

He's even learnt a few new spells, which he's incredibly grateful for _(one of his favourites is the one that allows the spell-caster to change gender – thinking of his life, magically changing into a woman will definitely be a useful skill)._

* * *

 **Crossdressing Merlin because like why not?**

 **This chapter** **was meant to be posted a few days ago, but I've got a murderous cough and a killer fever which has proclaimed its undying love for me. Seriously, it won't go away. The light from the screen is trying to make me more dead than I already am (I think the fever is jealous that I'm trying to pay attention to something else) but I decided that I wanted to publish this _now_. Therefore, this chapter is probably not my best - neither grammatically nor regarding the writing itself - but just... bear with me. I needed to do something else than being miserable and staring at the ceiling and reading books (no matter how awesome said books are).**

 **Reviews equal cookies for you and medicine for me! :)**


	7. In which transformations are tricky

**Thank you all so much for the response to last chapter; by now I wish I really could send you cookies! Oh, and to the Guest who asked if I could write a little sequel to chapter 5: I can't _promise_ anything, and (as I've said to someone else as well) I don't think I'd be able to write an accurate description of someone dealing with a close one's death. Killing a character is easy, dealing with it is really hard, if you know what I mean. _However_ , if I'm suddenly struck by an idea of _"hell yes, this is something that could happen"_ I'll definitely write it down! So I suppose I'll wait and see where my plot bunnies take me. :)**

 **I think I've started about five different stories, but I managed to finish this one-shot; as some of you may have seen, I've started another short story called "The Dragonlord's Son" as well (wink wink). And regarding this chapter, the only warnings are general stupidity and some implied sexual stuff.**

 **Summary: _In which Merlin has a few magical mishaps in the form of transformations, and at the end of the day Arthur's sure Merlin's spending his time sleeping with Lancelot._**

* * *

He wakes to something poking his face and Lancelot's voice calling his name. Merlin grumbles and throws a hand over his eyes, taking a moment to realize that he's definitely not in his bed.

"Why am I on the floor?" Merlin mumbles.

The poking pauses. "I hope you realize I have no idea what you just said."

"I said," Merlin says, working his jaw and trying to get his uncooperative vocal chords to do his bidding, "why am I on the floor?"

"…you know, if you aren't Merlin, this is a slightly awkward situation if someone comes in," Lancelot tells him, and oh hell, that doesn't sound good at all. Merlin reluctantly opens his eyes and immediately recoils with a strange screeching sound because whoa Lancelot, personal space, please? Plus Lancelot's face appears too big abnormally large _(oh god, he hasn't enchanted Lancelot's head to grow, has he? Merlin doesn't know how to undo that. Lancelot may be very kind and calm and noble and such, but not even he can with good grace accept his friend cursing him with a giant head),_ and after a few seconds he realizes that Lancelot himself has grown bigger _(did he turn Lancelot into a giant? Not only would that be unfortunate for the knight, it would also be remarkably hard to explain)._

"…Wait, what do you mean, 'if you aren't Merlin?"

Lancelot doesn't answer, but his giant concerned face floats closer and Merlin automatically scrambles backwards. Something about his scrambling feels fundamentally wrong, and with a terrible sense of foreboding he glances down at his feet.

And then proceeds to screech _(again)._ Heaven above, he doesn't have any _**feet**_. He's got…. _talons,_ attached to sticklike legs. Merlin swears wildly and puffs up his feathers in indignation – oh **hell** , he's got feathers.

Ah, and would you look at that; no hands, just wings. And no wonder his mouth felt weird and dry – he has a _beak_. Oh, that is just…

"Am I meant to take that as 'yes, I am Merlin, thanks for asking' or 'no, I'm a bird, you bloody madman'?" Lancelot asks, sounding far too amused about this situation.

Merlin answers by glaring daggers at him _(really, what else is he supposed to do? He can't bloody talk, it's not like he can answer anything except for yes and no questions)._ Where the hell is Gaius when you need him?

"Alright, then… I'll presume you are, in fact, Merlin; ignoring the fact that you're a bird, do you remember what happened?"

After some brief consideration and another feeling of _ah bloody hell,_ he shakes his head.

"That's… probably not a good sign. Another curious question is what on earth you're doing in the armoury; if this was another magical experience gone wrong, I'd have expected you to be in your chambers."

Huh. He hadn't realized that he was in the armoury, but now that Lancelot mentioned it, yes, he definitely recognizes the place. "What I want to know is why you see a bird on the armoury's floor and immediately reaches the conclusion that the bird is me," Merlin tells him, receiving a blank look in return. Damn bird speech.

Lancelot lowers his hand towards the floor and looks expectantly at him. "Hop up, then."

"Oh, no. There's no way I can balance on your arm; do you even know me? I can't even keep my balance in human form, what exactly makes you think this is a good idea?"

Lancelot, thankfully, seems to get the gist of what he's trying to say and resorts to simply scooping him up into his arms. Merlin squawks and struggles to find a reasonably comfortable position. Lancelot bends down again to gather something else from the floor – oh, hello Merlin's clothes. That explains why the knight had bothered to ask the random bird if it was Merlin.

That also means that Merlin will be stark naked when he turns back into his human form. Damn it.

"I hate everything about this day," Merlin says and Lancelot hums slightly in reply.

Being in the form of a bird is as a rule uncomfortable, but being squished between a chest covered in chainmail and a gauntlet certainly isn't making anything any _less_ uncomfortable. They're about halfway to Gaius' chambers when Lancelot finally grows tired of Merlin's constant wiggling.

"Merlin!" he scolds, voice lacking any anger and only filled with mild disapproval _(the man doesn't seem to be capable of being anything except for noble and perfect)._ "Stop moving so much or I'll drop you!"

"Has the ale affected my ears, or did you just call that bird Merlin?" an amused voice calls out, and both knight and bird freeze.

Lancelot turns around to face Gwaine, who's sauntering towards them with his trademark grin upon his face.

"Um," Lancelot says and Merlin cringes. "It's a… joke. Bird named after Merlin, you know?"

Gwaine leans over Merlin _(Merlin politely refrains from picking out his eyes)_ and reaches out a hand to poke at him _(Merlin also politely refrains from biting his fingers_ ). "Going to try out falconry, are we?"

"Why on earth do you have a bird in your arms, Lancelot?" a new voice asks, and Merlin groans at the sight of Arthur striding down the corridor towards them, closely followed by the rest of the Knights of the Round Table.

"This day is getting better and better," Merlin proclaims tiredly. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't get an answer.

"It's Merlin's bird, sire," Lancelot blurts out as Arthur comes to stand before him. "I'm looking after it while Merlin is working."

Gwaine frowns. "I thought you said the bird was named Merlin?"

"It… is."

Percival leans over Gwaine's shoulder to peer down at the bird. "The bird is also a merlin falcon."

"…Indeed," Lancelot replies.

Arthur puts his hands on his hips and sighs. "Let me get this straight; Merlin has a merlin named Merlin?"

"It, um, would seem like that. Sire."

"Well I can't say it isn't something Merlin wouldn't do," Arthur admits with a roll of his eyes, and Merlin grumbles quietly in Lancelot's arms.

"Why are you carrying clothing?" Elyan asks and Merlin can practically see poor Lancelot's mind racing for a suitable answer.

"I'm helping Merlin with laundry," Lancelot exclaims and the only reason Merlin doesn't bite him, is that the armour would only result in Merlin hurting himself.

"…you're looking after Merlin's bird and helping Merlin with laundry?"

"Yes. A knight's duty doesn't concern merely sword fighting and defending the lives of others, but also to help a citizen in any way you can. And, not to sound disrespectful, sire, but you _have_ been working Merlin hard. And above all, Merlin is my friend. Helping a friend in need should always be a priority."

"That's actually not a bad cover," Merlin praises, feeling oddly proud of his friend for his improving lies-and-diversions skills.

"Helping him with pets, his _own_ laundry, as well as covering for him, most likely," Arthur gripes as he starts walking away. "Tell Merlin that while he has a very good friend, it doesn't get him out of doing his bloody work, will you?"

"Yes, sire," Lancelot says, and skilfully dodges Gwaine's attempts at getting him to the training field in order to try out the some falconry.

 **oOoOo**

The way to Gaius' chambers is always ridiculously long in dire situations, Merlin reflects sourly as they're finally in the safety of the physician's rooms. Said physician isn't at home, and Merlin remembers that Gaius most likely is doing his rounds right now. Perfect.

"Alright," Lancelot says. "Down here or your room?"

Merlin hesitates for a moment before flapping a wing in the direction of his room. He's read a lot about animal transformation spells lately, and he has a sneaking suspicion that his current form is the result of himself doing a spell in his sleep _(the armoury is a_ _ **surprisingly**_ _comfortable place to sleep in)._

Lancelot deposits him on Merlin's desk, casually catching him as Merlin immediately tips to the side and almost falls off. He fetches the magic book under the bed without asking, and places it on the desk next to Merlin.

"Where do we start?" Lancelot asks as he helpfully opens the spell book.

"This would be remarkable much easier if you understood a word I'm saying," Merlin explains as he hops closer to look at the pages. If nothing else, bird sight is definitely a lot better than human sight. If only he'd learn how to transform back, he'd start using this spell more often.

Lancelot, bless him, patiently turns page after page for Merlin until the shadows on the walls grow longer, until Merlin finally lets out a piercing screech of victory. It's a relatively easy spell – granted, it would be easier if he was able to talk, but he's sure he can pull it off non-verbally. The knight pointedly and without comment places Merlin's clothes nearby, and Merlin's sure he's blushing beneath his feathers.

Merlin spares a thought whether or not his eyes will turn golden; he hasn't looked into a mirror, but he's fairly certain a merlin falcon has black eyes. With a mental shrug he refocuses on the spell, feels Lancelot curiously leaning closer, and reads the incantation.

It takes a few tries, but when he eventually gets it right, the spell creates a small shockwave that sends Merlin flying off the table _(and not in the flying like a bird type of flying)_ and Lancelot tumbling off the chair.

One giant wave of extreme discomfort and tingling in his muscles later, and the room no longer appears to be twenty sizes too large. He's on his back on the floor and cautiously lifts a hand above his face, letting out a relieved laugh at the sight of gloriously human fingers. He hurriedly snatches his clothes from where they've landed and covers himself as quickly as possible.

"I will never take my hands for granted again," he says out loud as he pulls up his trousers. "Nor my voice, for that matter; do you know how awful not talking – Lancelot?"

Since he's pointedly avoided looking at the knight while dressing, he hadn't noticed that the knight isn't even there. That's… out of character. Merlin lets his shirt drop to the bed and finally notices the pile of clothing and chainmail on the floor.

"Oh no," he groans and warily approaches the pile. "Lancelot?"

The pile squeaks slightly and Merlin warily searches through it until he finds something warm, fluffy and moving. He pulls the fluffy thing away from the clothes and then practically _**melts**_.

"Oh gods," he says in awe, "Did I just turn you into a kitten?"

Lancelot the cat sneezes at him; a squeaky, high-pitched sound that makes Merlin want to coo and hug him and never let him go. It's a tiny grey kitten, with streaks of slightly darker shades and fluffy paws too big for its little frame. Big, baby blue eyes combined with its melancholy face and light whiskers seem to turn Merlin into a little puddle of feelings, and he can feel giggles bubble up in his chest.

"You're absolutely adorable," he snickers and Lancelot glares reproachfully at him _(sadly, Lancelot could go on a killing spree right now and still remain adorable, so the glaring really doesn't have any effect)._ Lancelot meowls something and Merlin straightens from his crouch with a chuckle, still clutching Lancelot to his chest.

"Right, right, back to the spell book. Although, I wouldn't mind keeping you as a kitten for a while – fine, no need to growl at me; your tiny growl was ridiculously cute, by the way –"

The door to Merlin's room slams open with a bang and Arthur strides in, royal and prattish in the way only the prat can be. "Merlin, you incompetent idiot, I have a few questions for you. One; where the hell have you been all day and why have you not completed a single bloody chore? Two; why are you walking around shirtless? Three; why on earth are you suddenly harbouring several animals?"

"I can't remember any laws against keeping pets, my lord."

"You just sit here and wait, and I'll go enforce laws against keeping pets."

"You'd sit through countless council meetings to enforce new laws just to spite me?"

"Shut up. Please don't tell me the cat's named Merlin too."

Merlin glances down at the tiny kitten before grinning at the king. "Nah. This little fella here is called Lancelot."

Lancelot's little claws dig warningly into his bare arm, causing Merlin to yelp and almost drop him.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Please stop naming animals after people."

"You know, I've been thinking about getting a pig just to name him Arthur."

Arthur picks up an inkhorn from Merlin's desk _(Merlin proceeds to have a minor heart attack, because there's an open spell book right in front of the king_ ) and throws it at him _(which isn't fair, because if he'll try to dodge he'll most likely drop Lancelot)._ Arthur pauses and looks strangely at the floor next to Merlin.

"Say, why exactly do you have sir Lancelot's clothes in your room?"

"Oh. Since he's been helping me out a lot I offered to… polish his chainmail and gauntlets."

"You did, did you? And his boots as well, apparently."

"And his boots."

"Going to polish his _shirt and trousers as_ well, are you?"

"See, this is why you'd be an awful servant; you can't bloody well polish clothes. No, they have to undergo this strange, secret proceeding called _washing_."

"Ah; and what exactly is Lancelot wearing right now?"

"Don't let this get over your head, sire, but I suppose he's wearing _clothes_."

Arthur rolls his eyes and turn away. "I'm not even going to ask _where_ Lancelot is, although I'm not surprised if he's hiding under your bed. Well, like I've said before, what a man does in his spare time is his own business. Just… bloody keep it to your actual _spare time_ , will you?"

Lancelot whimpers pathetically and thuds his little head in exasperation against Merlin's arm.

"Wait," Merlin calls out, "Do you think Lancelot and I are–"

"Just get dressed so you can finish your **long** list of chores," Arthur yells back before exiting Gaius's chambers.

"…I hate to say it, Lancelot," Merlin says warily, "But in the future, Arthur will probably explain my absence by assuming you and I are having intercourse."

Lancelot groans and keeps his head down, most likely questioning why he remains Merlin's friend.

Merlin brightens. "You know, that's actually not a bad excuse."

Lancelot sinks his tiny little sharp teeth into his arm.

* * *

 **Alright, reason for this particular plot bunny then?**

 **Our cat has recently gotten four kittens, and I've named three of them. My favourite grey kitten got to be named Lancelot, and the name seems to be sticking. I am very pleased with myself. Obviously, this called for a one-shot where Lancelot the Knight gets to be Lancelot the Kitten.**

 **Reviews are, as always, precious! :)**


	8. In which Emrys is searched for

**Alright, so I'm giving you a reveal!fic - like, not a sort-of-almost-reveal!fic. Not my best chapter, but it's something! Also it's been snowing a lot and everything's covered in it and I'm so happy it's ridiculous; I need to post this before I'm unable to write anything else than christmas mush and snow stuff.**

 **Set in season 5.**

 _ **Summary: In which Arthur finds out about the secret sorcerer who's protecting Camelot, and then accuses just about everyone of being the almighty Emrys except for Emrys himself.**_

* * *

Arthur drums his fingers against the table. Guinevere's in her own chambers, and he's dismissed Merlin for the evening _(the lack of his servant clattering around makes his rooms disturbingly peaceful)_ , meaning he's alone. Alone with his thoughts and brooding regarding what the druids had told him. The rapt knocking at his door comes as a relief and he's quick to shout out an "Enter".

"You wished to speak with me," Leon says as he steps into the king's chambers, dutifully closing the door behind him.

Arthur waves a hand at him. "Sit down and drink with me, Leon," he says, promptly filling a goblet with wine for the knight.

"Is everything alright?" Leon asks as he accepts the goblet and takes a seat at the table.

"I'm thinking about removing the ban on magic," Arthur says casually, carefully watching Leon's face to examine his reaction _(it's hard to get a close look on his facial expression since he abruptly chokes on the wine and starts coughing)._ "Obviously I'd change the law gradually," Arthur continues, as though one of his closest knights isn't desperately wheezing next to him. "Not only would I have to convince the councillors, but the people of Camelot have feared magic for so long; I can't exactly make magic legal in one day. What do you think about starting with the druids – forbid the persecution of them and slowly allow them to start entering the city?"

"Sire," Leon coughs and discreetly wipes his mouth. "May I ask what has brought this on?"

"Let's not get into all the details," Arthur dismisses, "For now, let's focus on that I have been told of one particular sorcerer, who has helped Camelot in secret for many years, protecting and guarding my life. He hides in plain sight and fights from the shadows, and his true name is unknown. I intend to find him."

"I see," Leon says, and Arthur's fondly impressed by his ability to remain completely stoic, not betraying a single thought passing through his head. "And who, if I may ask, is this mystery sorcerer?"

"Did you completely miss the part where I said he hides in plain sight and no one knows his true name?"

Leon hums slightly in agreement. "I may not fully agree with your plans, but I presume you wish for me to find this sorcerer?"

"Not really. You see, I have one of his names," Arthur leans forward and lowers his voice _(for dramatic effect),_ " _ **Emrys**_."

Had he been hoping for an interesting reaction, he'd be greatly disappointed. Leon's face remains utterly blank.

"I'm afraid I've never heard of that name before, sire."

Arthur slumps back in his seat. "I'm actually suspecting you of being Emrys."

That, at least, gets him a reaction. The poor knight had attempted to drink more of his wine and sadly proceeds to choke on that sip as well.

"Excuse me?"

"It'd make sense! Emrys is supposed to be somewhat of a stalker, and let's face it; you've been with me on almost every mission for years upon years."

"I can name quite a few times where I haven't been with you."

"Plus you have an uncanny ability to survive anything. Did you know some people have started calling you the immortal knight?"

"I am no sorcerer!" Leon protests.

"But you could be!"

"Arthur, if I were an almighty sorcerer – who's not hell-bent on destroying Camelot, mind you – there are a lot of things I would have used my magical abilities for…"

 **oOoOo**

Since Leon made some fair arguments against the accusations of being Emrys _(still, the fact that he practically had a list of reasons why he can't be Emrys seems a bit suspicious),_ Arthur reluctantly admits defeat, dismisses Leon and goes to bed.

It feels like he's slept for a few minutes before Merlin violently drags the covers from him and yells good morning for the entire world to hear.

"For the love of god, Merlin," he groans into his pillow. "I can't believe I actually miss the times when you were fully incapable of showing up at time."

"It's remarkably hard to live up to your standards," Merlin replies mournfully and casually rips the pillow from Arthur's grasp. "You're pissed when I'm late, you're pissed when I'm early, and you're equally pissed when I'm on time. What on earth do you want from me?"

"I want you to shut up," Arthur grumbles as he's forcefully coaxed away from the bed and deposited in front of his breakfast. As Merlin begins tidying the chambers Arthur briefly entertains the thought of asking the servant for advice. Admittedly, he's got some good advice from time to time, but Arthur's reluctant to ask a question regarding magic. Especially when it comes to finding a sorcerer – and not to fight said sorcerer, but to _thank_ him. And possibly legalize magic – yes, perhaps he won't tell Merlin about that just yet. The poor man is practically terrified of magic; every time Arthur attempts to discuss the subject he gets twitchy and tries to steer the conversation as far away from magic as possible.

Although, speaking of Merlin…

"Merlin, is Gaius preoccupied for the moment?"

"I don't think so – he should still be in his chambers. Why'd you ask?"

"No reason. Oh, and before I forget; the stables are in desperate need of mucking –"

"You _do_ realize there are specific stable boys who are supposed to do that, right?"

"Polish my armour – I know you did that yesterday, but you did a sloppy job – and while you're at it you can polish my silverware."

"Arthur, you don't even _have_ any silverware."

"No? Well that's simply… shameful. What kind of king doesn't have silverware? Very well, I'm sure we can find something else for you to do instead – compensation for the lack of silverware, you see."

"How about the compensation is just doing my actual chores?" Merlin huffs _(fair enough; Arthur just needs the servant to stay away from Gaius' chambers for a while)._

Arthur's quick to leave in order to find Gaius before he leaves his chambers _(you'd think a man his age would consider taking it easy, but the physician is still tirelessly scurrying around working every day)._ A sorcerer who's been hiding in Camelot for years? Bloody hell, he already knows Gaius used to practise magic before the Purge – who's to say he actually gave it up? And who is the one who always has the answer to every magical crisis, the only one who actually knows how to defeat the weekly magical monster? Gaius certainly plays a bigger role than simply a physician.

"I'm afraid I have absolutely no idea who that is, sire," is the deadpan answer Gaius gives him when asked about Emrys. "But I could ask Geoffrey if he remembers any druidic prophesies, if you'd like."

Arthur groans. "Geoffrey is also in charge of a great bloody library; couldn't we find an answer there?"

"I'm afraid any books of magical or druidic origin were burnt during the Purge."

"Of course they were," Arthur mumbles and leaves after telling Gaius to alert him on any progress he makes.

 **oOoOo**

His next epiphany hits him like a lightning bolt, and he feels stupid for not realizing it sooner. If he's looking for a powerful sorcerer who hides in plain sight, the answer itself should be clear as a bell. Now, just how many knights with a magical background does he have? Arthur should have gone to him from the beginning.

"Sir Mordred," he calls out as he strides into the armoury, making sure they're alone _(he's not cruel; he doesn't want the poor knight to have an audience)._

Mordred immediately stands up, leaving his sword by the bench, and gives Arthur a short bow in greeting. "My lord."

"I'm going to ask you a question and I want an honest answer, alright?"

"Of course, sire."

"Do you practice magic?"

There's a slight widening to Mordred's eyes, broadcasting the fright in his gaze before he hurriedly puts on a blank facade. "Of course not! I may have druid blood in my veins, but I know the laws of Camelot, sire."

Arthur in turn puts on his stern royal face and decides to take a chance; "I have seen you use magic, Mordred," he lies coolly, hoping he's not making a fool of himself.

The fear is now evident in the boy's eyes and he breathes out sharply, bowing his head. "I… Sire, please, I've never… I wouldn't –"

"Please breathe before you faint," Arthur interrupts, trying to keep his irritation in check. "If I was going to arrest you I'd have brought some other knights with me."

The poor lad is still dreadfully pale and the wary set of his shoulders betray his tension. "Forgive me, but I don't…. understand."

"Executing you would be a poor repayment for your help regarding magic, don't you think?"

"Um," Mordred says, fright lessening in order for the confusion to take hold. "Pardon?"

"I'm looking for a sorcerer, known by the druids," Arthur continues. "And right now, I believe you could be him. Emrys."

Mordred makes a strangled sound as though he's choking on something particularly repelling. "You think _I'm_ Emrys?" he squeaks, and Arthur's faintly amused by his unordinary lack of control.

"I don't exactly know any other sorcerers around here, now do I?"

"Oh no," Mordred moans. "Emrys dislikes me already, and you believing Emrys to be me certainly won't help. Why on earth would you think I'm Emrys, you…"

"…So you're saying you're not Emrys?"

" _No_! I mean, _yes_ , I'm saying I'm not Emrys!"

And yet another dawning realization. "But you know who it is."

"Yes – no! Gods, I'm sorry sire, but there is no way I'm telling you who Emrys is unless I want Emrys to have my head – Emrys is… Emrys. Emrys is very powerful and stunningly loyal and most of the time very kind and can be quite terrifying, forgive me, but I will leave now," he rambles, "Right away. Good day, sire."

Sir Mordred scurries out of the armoury, actually having the nerve to ignore his king as Arthur calls his name after him.

 **oOoOo**

During the day he's considered _(and interrogated)_ just about all of his suspects. Gwaine seemed to find being accused of being a sorcerer absolutely hilarious, but didn't outright deny the claims except for "Princess, if I had unlimited magical powers I'd find something better to do than run around secretly saving your arse".

Elyan was affronted by the accusation and argued that "If I had magic, sire, don't you think I would have escaped from Morgana, thereby avoiding being tortured as well as getting Gaius and Gwaine out of that cell?" which, alright, Arthur didn't want to have a fight about that subject.

Percival had mildly pointed out that he had only been a knight of Camelot for a few years and "Honestly, this kingdom has miraculously survived magical attacks for far longer than I've been here", and come to think of it, Emrys has probably been there for longer than Arthur had thought.

Damn it.

He hasn't ruled them all out yet _(especially Gaius and Leon)_ but who else could be Emrys? Geoffrey? One of his councillors? Lords, it could be someone Arthur hasn't even met or knew existed; what if it's a servant? He knows the names of approximately two servants – he can't interrogate every living soul in the castle!

"Alright," Guinevere sighs as she finds him spending the evening sulking in his chambers. "I have several reliable sources claiming that you've been insufferable today. What's wrong?"

"And who exactly are those sources who dare to complain about their king?"

"Sorry; my reliable sources wish to remain anonymous. Now, I can't help you if I don't know what it is."

Arthur meets her gaze, already opening his mouth to spew out all his thoughts and frustrations, before halting. Good lord, whenever has anyone ever said that Emrys had to be a _man_? Emrys is supposed to stand beside him and be a secret protector, but nothing was said about Emrys being a warrior. Besides, wouldn't it be fitting? Morgana is supposed to fear Emrys, and wouldn't it be ironic for the best of friends to be each other's sworn enemy?

"I'm an idiot," Arthur tells her.

"I'm sure some would agree," she quips and sits down next to him

"I don't want anyone to hide anymore," he continues and takes her hand.

His queen's brow furrows. "I see?"

"I have recently found out about a magic-user who has been protecting Camelot for years, and the actions of this person have greatly affected my decision. I… I'm thinking of lifting the ban on magic," he says _(for what feels like the hundredth time that day)._

"Oh!" she exclaims, surprise colouring every aspect of her before she gives him a smile as bright as the sunrise. "Well it certainly took you long enough to realize it! I was afraid the hiding would never end, and while I was very unsure about the magic at first, I've now begun to see how the laws wrong those with magic."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," Arthur murmurs, feeling as though someone's stabbing him in the gut.

Guinevere laughs. "Don't be so melodramatic, it's not as though it was particularly hard for _me_! Oh Arthur, he'll be so _happy_ …"

"Wait – who's he?"

"Who's..? Arthur, who exactly are you talking about?"

"I… weren't we talking about you?"

"You think _**I**_ have magic?"

"You mean you're not Emrys?"

"Who's Emrys?"

"So you're not Emrys and you don't know who Emrys is?"

"No! I thought you'd finally realized that M…"

"Realized what?"

Guinevere groans and looks as though she wants to slam either her own or Arthur's head against a wall. "Never mind, Arthur, it's not my place to tell. However, let's go back to talking about changing the laws on magic; I still think that was a spectacular idea…"

 **oOoOo**

"Arthur!" Merlin bellows as he bursts into the king's chambers, unannounced as usual.

"Well it's about time," Arthur rolls his eyes. "Believe it or not, but you actually have a job – do you even know how late it is?"

"I'm sure you could have gotten into your bloody nightclothes without my help," Merlin snaps. "Or on second thought, maybe you couldn't have. Now what's this I hear about you and your stance on magic?"

"Who told you? No, I don't want to know; and _yes_ , I'm thinking of removing the ban on magic and I'd appreciate if you didn't freak out." Judging by the way Merlin's face goes white and he sways as though he's about to fall, no luck there. "Damn it, Merlin, I told you to not freak out."

"Are… are you serious?" Merlin whispers.

Arthur rubs a hand over his face. "Listen, I know you're not the biggest fan of magic – more like you're terrified of it– but there are things you don't know about it –"

"Hang on," Merlin interjects. "Since when am I terrified of magic?"

"You're not exactly subtle. Anyway, there's this secret sorcerer protecting us from the shadows –"

"Emrys," Merlin supplies helpfully.

Arthur briefly wonders _how the hell Merlin knows that name_ before he realizes that he's spent an entire day accusing everyone of being Emrys. Of _course_ Merlin's bound to have heard of it.

"I've also heard you've been suspecting just about everyone of being Emrys."

"Well if I'm about to change the laws I need a magic-user's advice, don't you think?"

"You're… looking for Emrys because you want advice," Merlin echoes slowly _(and lords, are there tears in his eyes now? That's a bit of an overreaction),_ "Not because you want to have him killed."

"I just talked about lifting the ban, you idiot, why would I kill him or her?" Arthur sighs in exasperation. "Whoever it is, they don't want to be found and I doubt I'll find them anytime soon."

Merlin takes a few hesitant steps closer. "I know who Emrys is."

Arthur's head snaps up so fast his neck cracks. "You're joking," he says, then narrows his eyes at his servant, "…you're not joking."

"You know, I can't help but notice you've accused everyone of being Emrys except for me. Am I supposed to be insulted?"

"Please. As though _you_ could be a sorcerer, never mind _**Emrys**_."

"I could!"

"You could not."

"Yes I could."

"No way in hell."

"I could."

"Oh, shut –"

" _ **Forbearnan.**_ "

Arthur yelps as Merlin cups his hand around a flame that materialized from nowhere _(he suppresses the initial reaction of "fie, the idiot is on fire")._ Merlin's eyes glow golden and he stares at his king in complete silence, tense as a lute string as he awaits his verdict.

"…You have magic."

Merlin nods wordlessly, absently letting the flame take the distinct shape of a tiny dragon.

Suddenly Merlin's claim that he knows Emrys makes a hell lot more sense. "Did Emrys teach you that?" Arthur asks, making sure to not look threatening or about to chop off his servant's head.

Merlin's eyes widen incredulously. "Oh for the love of god," he barks and snuffs out the little dragon shaped flame. "I _am_ Emrys, you incompetent prat!"

Arthur allows himself a few minutes to think about it; after all, Merlin has spent close to a decade by his side and certainly would have been in an ideal position to protect him, but he's… _Merlin_.

"…Nah."

In the end it takes Gaius, a couple of druids as well as a great bloody **dragon** to convince the reluctant king that his manservant is the powerful warlock Emrys. Maybe he should give Merlin a raise.

* * *

 **Worth mentioning is that the name of this fic's document was "arthur continues failing at life", because I have a thing for Arthur being oblivious. Because reasons.**

 **Reviews equal oxygen and oxygen is important to me! :)**


	9. In which Morgause sucks at instructions

**Gosh, 17 reviews for last chapter? You're making me _swoooooon_! :) ****Now, this chapter is dedicated to Pichicha123, since she accidentally-on-purpose fed me some plot bunnies, and said bunnies demanded to be written.**

 **Warning s: more stupidity and talking about human anatomy - as in, naked people.**

 **Set in season 3**

 **Summary: _In which Morgana tries a new spell, Merlin is frustrated, Gwen is ridiculously handsome, and Arthur is generally confused._**

* * *

If there's something Morgana absolutely despises _(other than Uther Pendragon, that is. And a numerous amount of other people and things)_ it's **failing**.

In theory, Morgause's suggestion had been brilliant; after all, what are the downsides of learning a spell to change one's appearance? Especially if one happens to be the very well-known ward of the king, while trying to kill said king. It makes sneaking around very complicated – particularly with all the bloody fools falling head over heels in order to try to protect her and keep her out of harm's way. Idiots. Not only does she have magic _(which, to be fair, none of the guards or knights or royals are aware of),_ but she could beat a large amount of them in a sword fight. Pompous bastards, the whole lot of them.

However, brilliant in theory or not, Morgause is not the best instructor to have when it comes to complicated spells. Her sister has a bad habit of saying things like "you must find your own path in this, Morgana" and "I cannot always be there to guide you, sister" and "bloody hell, Morgana, experience is the best teacher, is it not?", and _yes_ , _perhaps_ she has a point.

Morgana still doesn't know how experience is going to help her if she doesn't know the bloody spell. She tried the spell at night, somehow managed to knock herself out, and now…

She stands in front of her full-length mirror, staring at her own reflection in an odd mixture of smug pride and distinct horror.

To her own defence, the spell _did_ work; it just… didn't go exactly according to plan. She had intended to turn herself into some unrecognizable serving girl, not… Well. She hadn't meant to turn herself into a man.

At least, she reasons, she's a very handsome man. She's still slim, but with wider shoulders and narrow hips, her face sharper but still clean-shaved, and a long cascade of black hair flooding down her _(very handsome)_ back. If the man in the mirror wasn't her, she'd definitely like to invite him to her chambers.

She also happens to be stark naked, since her dresses are far too tight for this body.

Now, this would be a very useful disguise and she'd count this spell as a success, if it wasn't for the tiny detail that she can't change back into a woman. Handsome or not, she's rather fond of her own form and curves.

And speaking of things Morgana despises; another thing she really hates is unannounced servants barging into her room while she's standing fully naked in the middle of the room. She shrieks and grabs her red cloak in order to cover herself, instinctually shielding her bosom _(even though she doesn't_ _ **have**_ _one)._

"What is the meaning of this?" she snaps at the poor serving girl, using the meanest voice at her disposal.

"I could ask you the same thing!" the girl snarls back, the blatant disrespect making Morgana pull up short. What s _ervant_ would talk like that?

"I could have you flogged for disrespecting me," Morgana threatens, and fine, it's not like she'd have a girl flogged for speaking out of turn, but this is _so_ not the time for small talk.

The serving girl snorts, obviously unimpressed with the threat. "Really? Do you think I'm the one getting flogged if I run to the king, telling him there's a stark naked ruffian in Lady Morgana's chambers? Think again."

Oh. Well. She does have a point – damn it, Morgana gets the feeling this is going to be a long day. "The Lady Morgana may choose a companion for the night is she so wishes," Morgana replies stiffly, straightening up and trying to imitate Arthur's snotty way of standing.

"Oh for pity's sake," the girl growls, "I know it's you, Morgana."

Morgana's world seems to momentarily freeze. "What are you –"

"I don't want to know why you're suddenly a man, you idiot, I want to know why _**I'm**_ suddenly a woman!"

Morgana's world freezes again. Oh, _please_ don't tell her that she accidentally switched gender for everyone in Camelot; she can't possibly hide that failure from her gleeful sister…

"No wait, bugger that," the serving girl continues, "I actually don't give a damn about why. Just change me back, before I run screaming straight to Uther and tell him there's a man threatening his ward's virginity, and you'll soon find yourself thrown into the dungeons," her threats would feel more threatening if she hadn't stalked closer to Morgana, and therefor gotten her legs tangled up in the dress. The girl falls flat on her face at Morgana's feet.

Morgana squints at her ( _him_?), taking in the familiar face and the big ears and the bright blue eyes and the short black hair peeking out from underneath her headscarf –

" _Merlin_?" she exclaims in disbelief.

The girl glares up at her and climbs to her feet. "Yes, that'd be me, _my lady_."

"I – _how_?"

"I woke up with two lumps at my chest and the knowledge that going to the bathroom would be very strange," Merlin deadpans. "And never mind what I said again; I'd actually _love_ to hear why you've suddenly started gender experimenting."

Since there's no way in hell Morgana will admit she made a mistake _(least of all to Merlin of all people),_ she settles for smirking at him. "Oh, I'm sure you _would_ love to know," she says silkily, "but why on earth would I tell you?"

Merlin narrows his eyes at her and opens his mouth _(no doubt to say something insulting again_ ), but he's interrupted by a timid knock at the door. He gives her a deathly glare and Morgana's eyes widen when she realizes what he's about to do.

"Merlin, no," she hisses furiously, rushing forward to stop him.

Too late. Merlin's already managed to open the door, revealing a handsome, dark-skinned young man shuffling his feet in the doorway. Shocked brown eyes meet Morgana's, and it's only then Morgana realizes she's a practically naked man trying to restrain a skinny little serving girl.

"Um," Morgana says, immediately letting go of Merlin and straightening the cloak covering her new private parts. "Whatever you're thinking, this is not what it looks like."

The man continues looking at Morgana with those big, heartfelt doe-eyes, long brown hair escaping his ponytail and framing his face. "I don't know what I'm thinking and I don't want to know what you think I think it looks like," he says in a small voice and Merlin rolls his eyes, dragging the taller man into the room.

"Stop looking like a kicked puppy, you're making Morgana fall in love with you," Merlin sighs, and it's only then Morgana realizes the handsome man is wearing one of Merlin's blue shirts, and the pants probably belonging to Arthur's servant as well. A pit of dread is forming in Morgana's stomach and she leans closer to stare into that angelic face.

"Oh, no," Morgana moans. "Gwen? Is that you?"

"Yes, my lady," the man replies shyly and the cloak slips from Morgana's fingers. Oh, Morgause is _never_ going to let her live this down.

Gwen quickly averts her _(his? Her?)_ eyes and stares up at the ceiling. "Morgana, while I've definitely seen you naked before, I'd rather not see you naked while you're a man. I've seen enough by going to the bathroom, and it was highly disturbing."

"Well where the hell am I supposed to find any clothes that fit me?"

Gwen's eyes _(although still averted)_ light up. "I'm sure Merlin can lend you some!"

That… can't be good. "Can't you just steal something from Arthur?"

"Oh no," Merlin says, the false apologetic tone barely concealing the mirth in his voice. "I'm afraid Arthur's rather protective of his clothes these days. But don't worry; I'm sure I can find you something."

 **oOoOo**

Merlin actually _does_ bring her clothes _(mostly to keep Gwen from disappointingly glaring at him)_ but that doesn't mean she's happy about it.

"Oh, stop glaring at Merlin," Gwen chides, "It's not his fault he doesn't own several wardrobes full of clothes like you do – you should be happy you're dressed at all!"

"Gwen," Morgana grits out. "I'm wearing one of Gaius's old robes."

"I think that rather suits you, actually," Merlin pipes up cheerily. "Maybe you should start wearing clothes like this more often."

"I admit it's a pity," Gwen says sympathetically. "You're very handsome as a man, and I would've loved to check you out some more – clad in decent clothing _without_ those large robes."

"Gwen!" Merlin shrieks.

"What? I'm not _blind_ , Merlin, I know a handsome man when I see one."

"Why is Merlin in a dress anyway?" Morgana interrupts. "Surely you realize you're able to wear pants even without your manhood?"

"Gwen didn't find my clothes appropriate," Merlin replies dryly.

Gwen pointedly pulls at the shirt she's wearing, showing the large neckline. "I didn't think it was proper for him to walk around showing his bosom to all of Camelot."

Morgana takes a closer look at the servant's clothing and narrows her eyes. "Gwen, is Merlin wearing my dress?"

"Technically," Gwen says patiently, "It's my dress. You gave it to me years ago. Plus, doesn't he look absolutely _lovely_ in that dress? I'd say he pulls it off better than I ever did."

Merlin beams. "Thank you, Gwen. I'd also say you're way more handsome in my clothes than I am; the blue really suits you!"

"You think so? I've only worn light blue before, but this is a very lovely colour. Speaking of colours, green really suits you; we should get you a green shirt or neckerchief."

"Oh god," Morgana mutters and rubs a hand across her painfully handsome face. "Why the hell are the two of you in my chambers in the first place?"

 **oOoOo**

As if being stuck with a ridiculously handsome Gwen and equally ridiculously adorable Merlin wasn't bad enough, Arthur decides to show up. Morgana concludes that the universe is out to get her, since Arthur usually never bothers to visit her chambers.

"Morgana," he calls out as he strides into her room, "Have you seen – who the hell are you?"

Gwen chuckles nervously. "Sire, could you please… put away your sword? We're mere servants, not… not any sort of abductors or thieves or assassins."

Arthur stubbornly keeps his sword pointed at them, all royal and noble and stupid. Morgana wants to fling him against the wall.

"Where's Morgana?" he asks lowly. "And don't tell me you're mere servants – you, for one, are wearing robes. What kind of servant wears robes?"

"Actually," Merlin points out, "there's not a dress code for servants, unless it's a feast."

The sword is suddenly pointed towards Merlin, but Morgana notes that it's nowhere near Merlin himself – stupid chivalrous Arthur wouldn't raise a hand against a woman. Moron.

"That dress, girl, belongs to someone I know," Arthur says, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

Merlin, as always, remains stonily _(stupidly)_ unimpressed. " _Really_? I don't think I've ever seen her use this one – are you searching through her wardrobe, you creep? Because if you are, I'll have to punch you. Defend Gwen's honour, or something."

Arthur blinks slowly and then glances at Gwen. "You're wearing my servant's clothes," he deadpans, and then peers closer at Merlin. "…Merlin?" he asks incredulously, and of _course_ he recognizes his _servant_ , but not the woman he loves nor the woman he grew up with. How _typically_ Arthur.

"Congratulations," Merlin tells him, "you've learned the skill of observation."

Arthur sighs, casually letting the sword drop to his side. "I'm not going to ask why you're wearing a dress, but I _am_ going to ask why you're in Morgana's chambers with two bloody strangers."

"Arthur, I'm not wearing a dress for fun, I'm –"

" _How_ many times do I have to tell you that I don't care what a man does during his spare time?" Arthur sighs, but to Morgana's surprise he sounds rather fond instead of irritated.

Gwen clears her throat. "Um, sire… Surely you notice something else?"

"Like the fact that I'm usually taller than you, and now I'm suddenly shorter?" Merlin suggests pointedly.

"Don't be ridiculous, you've never been taller than me."

"Are you delusional or just plain stupid?"

"You can't address me like that, you idiot."

"Arthur, there's sorcery at work here," Gwen says and Morgana grits her teeth. "As in, Merlin's an actual woman. I mean, he woke up as a woman, he –"

"Well, he's never been particularly manly, now has he?" Arthur remarks with a guffaw, and carelessly brushes off the warning regarding sorcery.

Merlin makes a face. "Gwen, just how socially unacceptable would it be for me to pull down my dress and flash the prince of Camelot? Just to prove a point?"

"Highly unacceptable, please don't do that."

"Wait," Arthur says, "Gwen?"

"It's me," Gwen says meekly, the curly hair bouncing up and down as she nods.

Arthur stares at her some more, clearly connecting the similarities between Gwen and the man in front of him. Morgana snorts as his eyes dip downwards to carefully look at her flat chest. "Right," he says faintly. "I just want you to know that if you're messing with me right now, you'll spend the rest of your days in the stocks."

"For the love of god, Arthur," Morgana snaps, "Merlin has a clearly visible cleavage, how the hell would he fake that? And what the hell happened to the Pendragon habit of lighting pyres as soon as anyone as much as mentions sorcery?"

"…Merlin, am I going insane, or is that a male version of Morgana in hideous robes?"

"Hey," Merlin objects, "those are Gaius's robes, don't insult them."

"Do you know anyone else with that kind of hair?" Gwen points out. "Of course it's Morgana."

"I don't know anyone else with that kind of _death glare,"_ Arthur replies as he stares at Morgana. "It's definitely Morgana. We have to tell the king."

"No!" both Morgana and Merlin exclaim at the same time.

"And why ever _not_?"

"You know how Uther is," Morgana says, wrecking her brain for excuses. "He'll… he'll probably accuse Gwen or Merlin for sorcery." Hey, that's actually not a bad idea – maybe she could get rid of Merlin once and for all. Damn it, she shouldn't have said anything.

"I'd rather not be accused of sorcery," Merlin adds.

Arthur looks pained, but agrees with a resigned nod of his head. "Then what do we do?"

"I don't know," Merlin says, voice overly loud and eyes pointedly directed at Morgana. " _Perhaps_ it's a _time_ limited spell, that'll _wear off_ after a while. Maybe we should just _wait_ a while."

"Yes," Morgana agrees easily, "We should just keep _quiet_ about this, before anyone gets _unfairly accused_ of being a sorcerer. I'm sure we'll be back to _normal_ before the day ends." At least she _hopes_ she'll be able to break the spell within a day.

"…Alright," Arthur agrees slowly. "We'll give it a day."

Why the hell did he agree with that? That's actually a very bad plan, but Morgana's not complaining; she'd love to be a man so she could spar with someone without Uther complaining, but it's not like she'll do any sparring dressed like this. Bloody hell.

"Right then," Arthur says and claps his hands together. "If this is how you want to do it, then by all means! Just don't think you, Merlin, are getting a day off just because you've turned into a woman."

"Wait, you… you want me to work? Like this?"

"Why, Merlin, are you saying women can't do their job? Careful; you're in the same room as two women who could easily beat you in just about everything."

"No, you dollophead, I'm saying I can't work in this dress!"

"Gwen works in dresses every day, she's not complaining."

"I've also been walking in dresses for years," Gwen points out, "Merlin can barely keep his balance _without_ a dress to stumble over – no offence, Merlin."

"Arthur," Merlin hisses. "What happens if the… _spell breaks_ when I'm working?"

Arthur grins like a hyena. "Well, then I suppose you'd simply lose your bosom and go back to being a peasant boy in an adorable dress."

"I'll probably be accused of sorcery, and then burned for being a shapeshifter."

"Don't be so dramatic," Arthur sighs and pulls Merlin towards the door. "We'll take our leave now, if the two of you don't mind."

"Oh, and don't work Merlin too hard!" Gwen calls out sweetly. "I'd hate for my dress to be ruined, sire."

"Of course, Gwen," Arthur replies warmly, and Merlin beams at Gwen over the prince's shoulder. Gwen winks at him, having effectually lessened his workload for the day _(Arthur may act tough and rough if he wants to, they all know he's a pushover when it comes to Gwen)._

They can hear Merlin yelp through the closed door as he once again overbalances and crashes to the floor, shortly followed by Arthur's voice.

"Don't be such a _girl_ , Merlin, get up from the floor."

"I _am_ a girl, you simpleminded, superficial, daft ignoramus." Their bickering voices slowly fade away as they walk down the corridor.

"Do you need my assistance with anything… my _lady_?" Gwen asks with a small smile.

"No thank you," Morgana sighs and sits down on her bed. "You just… go flirt with some maidservants and avoid marrying them, you charming young man, you."

Gwen laughs slightly and walks towards the door. "Am I getting the day off?" she asks, her smile not reaching her eyes as she's dismissed once more.

"Yes. Enjoy it whilst you can."

Morgana waits until she can't hear Gwen's footsteps anymore before she starts preparing her spell. She might not be able to get Merlin killed just yet, but she sure as hell can cause him some awkwardness by removing the spell whilst it's broad daylight and he's in a public space.

It's only later that she remember she sent poor Gwen out to socialize.

* * *

 **Yes, I wrote a genderbent!fic; blame** **Pichicha123. I'm quite sure this isn't what you had in mind (this is definitely _not_ what I had in mind- it just sort of... happened) but it's still a fic!**

 **Reviews equal big, virtual hugs! :)**


	10. In which Yule is here

**Good grief, would you look at that? It's Christmas Eve! Someone hold me, I'm overrun by christmas feels. Sadly, instead of writing the promised fluffy-mushy-christmas-fic, I wrote this. Not my best chapter, but I hope you will forgive me. No real warnings; not angst, but not happy!cracky!stuff either.**

 **Lots of thanks for the response to last chapter - you're all awesome! Therefore, this is your christmas present.**

 **Summary: _In which Merlin returns after years of self-imposed exile, and is greeted by a Camelot where everything is different yet nothing has changed._**

* * *

Camelot is bathed in the last sunlight of the day, making the light veneer of snow sparkle and the white towers seem to glow. Merlin allows himself to stop and drink in the sight, before hurrying along.

It's still early enough for the guards to allow him entrance without questioning, which he is more than glad for _(he doesn't really feel like knocking out some poor guards_ ). Camelot is a buzz of activity; its citizens running around in the streets, preparing for the yuletide, foreign salesmen trying to sell their goods…

It's achingly familiar. The city hasn't changed – the bakery is new, built over the ashes of the last one, and the inhabitants of the many houses has changed, but Camelot itself remains what it always has been. He sees a few familiar faces _(but even those faces are wrong_ ) but no one recognizes Merlin _(he doesn't know if he should be relieved or disheartened)._

"There is no place for magic here," a voice calls out, and Merlin grimaces. Ah; there's the Camelot he remembers. He sneaks a glance towards the source of the call, and sees a guard steering a young woman towards the gates.

"Please," Merlin hears her plead as they near him, "I'm no sorceress, I – I only wish to buy some food from the market – "

The guard scoffs impatiently and tugs less than gently at her arm. Merlin responds by less than gently making said guard fall over in the muddy snow.

"Oi," the guard splutters as he climbs to his feet, pointing a finger at Merlin, "I saw that, sorcerer!"

"Well I bloody well hope you did," Merlin replies. "I wasn't exactly subtle."

"May I ask what you're doing here, sorcerer?" the guard asks, surprisingly calmly. The woman's eyes dart between them, and in an unspoken agreement, she quietly slips away towards the gates.

"Oh, you have such lovely manners," Merlin says, plastering on his biggest and most obnoxious smile. "I'm glad to see the young men of Camelot are such a respectable bunch."

"Indeed," the guard says, "but while you will not be killed for your magic, your kind _certainly_ isn't welcome here."

Merlin tuts. "I'm sure there are more polite ways to dismiss someone, young man."

The guard has yet to raise his sword at him, opting to merely keep his hand at the sword hilt, "That's enough. I will gladly escort you to the gates, if you may?"

"Oh, will you now? That's very kind of you, good sir, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline. Now, if you'll excuse me; I've got business to attend to."

"I insist," the guard says through gritted teeth, blocking Merlin's path.

Merlin huffs out a leering laugh and leans closer to the guard. "Nah. I've got no business down at the gates."

"This is your last warning, sorcerer; leave or I will – "

"What? Drag me to your king? Then by all means, I've intended to seek an audience with that prat, anyway."

The poor guard shifts uneasily _(Merlin wonders if he should knock him out, just to spare him the obvious confusion)_ and his eyes dart to the sides, looking for reinforcements. "I – I don't – "

"Well, you're supposed to do your duty, now aren't you?" Merlin prods mildly. "And here you have a bloody sorcerer, not only disturbing the peace but alas, also assaulting one of Camelot's finest guards! Grievous offences, these, you better alert that king of yours."

"The king is hardly informed of _every_ petty crime, you will be taken to the dungeons, not – "

"Ah, the dungeons! Please tell me you've at least upgraded those – it's embarrassingly easy to break out of those bloody rat holes."

The guard grips his arm. "You've wasted enough time already; since you're not leaving, you will be coming with me."

"You're absolutely right, my friend," Merlin agrees readily, and _(with the help of a healthy dose of magic)_ forcefully steers them both towards the great hall. The guard yelps and digs his heels into the ground _(again, Merlin feels pity for the man since there are more than a few gawking on-lookers),_ which is highly ineffective.

Entering the castle steals his breath away once more; every nook and corner of the castle brings yet another memory, every floor he has walked and…. For pity's sake, this was his _home_. His feet carry him to the great hall and, sparing no thought to the guards trying to stop him, he _(very politely_ ), knocks at the big door before entering.

"Begging your pardon," Merlin says smoothly as every gaze in the room turns towards him, "but I seek an audience with the king."

There are some muffled thuds and curses from the guards behind him, but otherwise it's deadly quiet.

"Leave us."

The king's grave voice _(Merlin's slightly disappointed in the lack of surprise on his face)_ silences all objections and, as one, the court members and knights stand up and scurry away from the room. Finally the room is empty except for the king and the warlock, and only when the doors are closed does Merlin release his hold over the guards at the other side.

"So," Merlin starts and strolls closer to the table, pretending to not see how the king's knuckles turn white as he grips the armrests. "I see you kept the Round Table."

"It's rather well-known by now," he replies dryly, "I'm quite sure there'd be public riots if I had it removed."

Merlin hums noncommittally and slumps down in a chair a few seats away from the king. "You have a bigger chair," he remarks wryly, "Doesn't that sort of ruin the notion that everyone is equal at this table?"

"Ah, well; it's a rather old-fashioned idea, don't you think?"

"Old-fashioned," the warlock echoes and laughs bitterly. They fall back into the safety of silence, each taking their time to study the other's features. The lines in the king's face have grown deeper, the light of youth in his eyes duller, and the hair has turned to silver, but the face still remains familiar and loved. Something _(the same old stab of pain)_ twists his guts and he finds himself longing for the days of his own youth, more fiercely than he has in years.

"You look well for your age," the king says scathingly, and Merlin shrugs _(immortality's a bitch, he wants to say)._

"I can't say the same for you. You've aged a lot since I last saw you."

"I've aged _properly_ , **sorcerer**."

" _Really_?" Merlin snaps, "Really, _sire_? If anything's old-fashioned these days, it's that bloody _magic-is-evil_ agenda. For god's sake, what are you doing?"

"I'm not executing any magic-users, am I?"

"All in good time, sire. Fear and prejudice is something that grows, and you're certainly feeding the flames to another Purge."

"Why did you leave?"

The question throws him off-course, leaving him blinking in the wake of the abrupt change of subject. "Don't tell me this is you throwing a _temper tantrum,_ you absolute – "

"I asked you a question."

"I think we both know the answer. I would have returned if – "

"What? The news of Camelot's Queen dying didn't reach your ears? Or did her death just not have enough importance for you, the oh-so-mighty Emrys?"

"We both know that's not – "

He slams his hands against the table, the loud bang echoing through the hall, his voice rising; "You were her closest advisor, her _best friend_ since – well, since forever. And you just… _left_. You weren't here when she died, and you weren't at her funeral. Just what kind of _friend_ are you, _Merlin_? _Where were you?_ "

"Gwen knew where I was," Merlin replies quietly, feeling his own temper stirring at being interrupted.

His response is greeted by a sharp, humourless laugh. "Oh, forgive me, what an incredibly stupid question. You were away, _waiting_. Waiting, waiting, always _waiting_."

"It's my duty, as well as my destiny."

" _Destiny_ ," the king hollers and shoots away from the table to pace _(always pacing around, these bloody royals)._ "I am _sick_ and _tired_ of hearing about some bloody destiny. I swear, there are so many times I've wanted to shake some sense into you –your destiny is _dead_ , Merlin! Dead!"

"Do you think I don't know that?" Merlin shoots back, voice sharp as a whip and magic angrily tingling under his skin.

"Well, sometimes I wonder!" the king of Camelot snarls before leaning his weight against one of the empty chairs, breathing deeply, before continuing in a softer voice; "He's dead. We were still here. We _needed_ you here."

"You're a good king, lad," Merlin sighs and stands up _(it seems like he's always giving pep-talks to downtrodden royals)._ "And you're more than capable of running this kingdom, and you have dozens of trusted advisors. You didn't truly need me here."

" _She_ did," Loholt replies, but the fire in his voice has died down.

"So that's what these laws against magic are about? That a sorcerer had the _nerve_ to leave the kingdom? Loholt, do you truly think your mother would want you to reinforce that particular ban?"

"You shouldn't have told her," Loholt replies, squirming away from the subject of magic. "You shouldn't have told her that my father would come back. She… for god's sake, she spent over _forty years_ waiting for her love to return to her. And you – you're _still_ waiting after _**sixty**_ years, and you couldn't even be bothered to be here when mother died."

"It's not like I left in the dead of night without saying goodbye," Merlin points out gently, resisting the urge to squeeze Loholt's shoulder _(or, gods forbid, give him a hug)._ "I left with Gwen's blessing, and I still kept in contact."

"We needed you here," Loholt repeats, "but you were busy searching for a long dead king."

The king strides out from the great hall, leaving Merlin wondering whether he will be arrested at sight or not. With a small shrug he takes the familiar servant passage away from there, slinking towards the kitchens in order to steal a pitcher of mulled wine.

 **oOoOo**

Merlin doesn't bother knocking _(he never has – why bother starting now?),_ and simply slips into the king's chambers. Loholt is standing by the window, staring out at the courtyard, and the sight is so _**Arthur**_ that Merlin wants to turn around and never return. Overlooking the darker skin and too old appearance, Loholt resembles his father in both looks and posture.

"Don't start another Purge, little princeling," Merlin murmurs as he comes to stand beside his king _(who isn't truly his king)._ "Nothing good comes out of it."

Loholt keeps his gaze fixed at the darkening world outside. "I'm hardly a prince anymore."

"No," Merlin agrees mildly and fills the two goblets with mulled wine, "I suppose you're not."

"Damn it, Merlin," Loholt sighs as he lets his forehead thud gentle against the cold glass ( _Merlin half expects him to blow on the glass and write down names – like the little boy he knew used to do)._ "You just couldn't let anything remain simple, could you?"

"So I've been told. Making people's lives difficult is an unfortunate hobby of mine."

"Why are you here, Merlin?"

Merlin shrugs. "Since your laws forbidding magic-users to enter is obviously a temper tantrum, someone has to drag your royal arse in line. Don't think you're too old for me to pull you over my knee, boy."

That drags a startled chuckle from Loholt, if nothing else. "I've missed you, uncle," he says wearily, and it's not fair to see the boy he saw grow up look like this; an old man with shoulders straining against the weight of a kingdom, grown cold and tired.

"For what it's worth, I _am_ sorry, Loholt."

The king's lips twitch into a bitter smile. "Yes. But you don't regret leaving."

A part of Merlin longs to explain himself; how it tore at him to see everyone grow older while he remained young, how awful it was to see old friends leave him one by one, to see the Round Table be filled by new faces and be surrounded by memories. How much he had loved to help raising Arthur's son, and how much he loved Gwen and Loholt as his family in all but blood, how sirs Leon and Percival were wonderful friends… And how terrified he was to see them all fade away. How petrified he is at the thought of being forced to remain on this earth, cursed to a long and lonely existence of waiting for his king.

"No," he finally says. "But I'm sorry nonetheless."

Loholt accepts the outstretched goblet and raises it in a mockery of a toast, "Happy yule, uncle," he murmurs and watches the snowflakes twirling outside.

Merlin clinks his own goblet against the king's, taking his time to study his profile and knowing that sooner or later Loholt will fade in his memory, become a blurred face in a mass of faces, and by the time Arthur returns, Merlin will only remember Loholt out of duty to his dead king. Recall the distant notion that _oh, by the way Arthur, you had a son; sorry, don't really remember him._

But for now… For now, Merlin can treasure the memory of the young prince who listened to his stories and laughed at his jokes and fell asleep in his arms, and who was the closest thing to a son Merlin will ever have.

"Happy yule, indeed," Merlin replies softly, and feels every year of his too-long life pressing down on him.

* * *

 **Merry Christmas, guys!**

 **And I mean - come on. Today is an anniversary for Arthur's death, so... No happy fic. Also, I'm incredibly grateful that I wasn't watching Merlin back in 2012 - who the hell airs a series final like that on christmas eve?**

 **Anyways; I hope you all have a great christmas - reviews, of course, equal christmas presents! :)**


	11. In which spindles are dangerous things

**Well, hell, fellas. It's been a while!**

 **There's actually a reason for today's update - it's exactly one year since I posted the first chapter! At first I thought that "hey, this is. This is too cheesy even for me, what the fuck, man, an _anniversary fic_?", but then I decided that hey, I actually _am_ that cheesy. Hooray for tiny anniversary story.**

 **Anyway, about this chapter... It's a rather old plot bunny by now, so I can't remember how/why on earth I decided that this was something that needed to be written. It seemed like a good idea at the time? Also, it was a good way to throw myself back into this lovely fandom.**

 **Warnings:** **Stupidity, really. And probably a very inaccuarate portrayal of the actual tale.**

 **Summary:** _ **In which Merlin is tired of all these bloody assassination plots, Gwen is the accidental hero of the story, and Arthur unwillingly gives birth to the tale of sleeping beauty.**_

* * *

In retrospect, Merlin thinks he should have seen this coming. He's not overly surprised, but he is a tad… disappointed.

Due to a rather clever assassination attempt _(that Merlin oh-so-surprisingly had to deal with)_ he hasn't slept in what feels like forever, his stomach is tragically empty, and he'd been promised a freaking day off after his endless chores _(or at least half a day. Possibly)._ Now, looking at Arthur sprawled across the floor at his feet, said day off is laughing its head off while gleefully flying out of sight.

Like he said – it's disappointing.

He let his guard down, that's it. Usually he gets at least a few days of downtime in between the different assassination attempts – short story even shorter; he was unprepared and ready to go to sleep, and therefore he made the mistake of leaving Arthur alone.

He crouches down next to the unconscious king and tries to detect any injuries – overlooking the charming bump getting ready to appear on his forehead _(courtesy of his less than gracious fall),_ he seems fine. Except for the unconsciousness, that is.

There's nothing out of place in Arthur's room, except for one _(very blatant)_ thing: there's a spinning wheel in the middle of the room, and a tiny drop of blood at the base of the spindle.

…He's loath to suspect a spindle of all things, but nonetheless, he supposes he needs to fetch Gaius. Leaving the king knocked out on the floor is generally a bad idea.

 **oOoOo**

"…Well how about a kiss?" Gwaine suggests, breaking the heavy silence in the room. He's studiously ignored by the others standing around the bed _(Gaius saw it fit to collect some knights in order to move Arthur to his bed – obviously, one needs four knights to lift the prat)._ Merlin is too tired to completely keep up with the ongoing conversation in the room, and he's not entirely sure why they're on the subject of kisses.

"As far as I can tell, there's nothing physically wrong with him," Gaius says, as though Gwaine hadn't opened his mouth. "He's just… asleep."

"Can you do anything for him?" Gwen asks, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"With the right amount of studying, I believe I will be able to come up with an antidote," Gaius continues, giving Merlin a very pointed stare. Merlin thinks about following Arthur's example and putting himself in a magical sleep – that way, he's sure he'd be able to get some rest.

"We'll need to gather the council," Leon says, "They'll want to know what's going on. Gaius, please keep me updated."

Gwen stands up from her seat at Arthur's bedside, and straightens her dress. "I'll get ready for the council then," she says dryly, "I'm sure they'll be a lovely bunch to talk with; what with the king being threatened by a spinning wheel of all things. With my luck I'm sure they'll want to burn every spinning wheel in Camelot. Gaius, if you need any help…"

"I'll have Merlin for that," Gaius fills in, giving the queen a kind smile. Merlin lets his head thud against Arthur's bed, contemplating if he should just go to sleep right here, right now.

"What about the kiss?" Gwaine tries again, "Everyone knows about the power of a true love's kiss, milady."

"I think I'll stick to kissing my husband while he's awake, thank you very much, sir Gwaine," Gwen deadpans. One by one, they start leaving the room, until only Gaius and Merlin _(and the sleeping king)_ remain.

Gaius waits until the door is closed before lightly smacking the warlock over the head. "Up, Merlin," he chides, and skilfully ignores Merlin's pitiful moaning.

"I'm quite fine here, thank you, Gaius."

He doesn't have to look up to feel his mentor's disapproving glare. "Are you suggesting we leave Arthur under this spell for a prolonged amount of time?"

"Well it's not like it's hurting him," Merlin argues, "He's just sleeping!"

Gaius doesn't bother gracing him with an answer, opting for instead inspecting the tiny wound at Arthur's finger yet again. "A poisonous, cursed spindle – interesting choice of weapon…"

"Certainly something new."

"Certainly something that will need some researching," Gaius points out mildly, and Merlin very pointedly whimpers in dread.

With that, they leave Arthur's room as well, Gaius prompting Merlin to go fetch more books from the library. Gaius lights candles and reads books until his back is crooked like an old, withering tree. Merlin sleeps with a book as a pillow until his neck is ready to commit mutiny.

 **oOoOo**

The next few days are spent in _(another)_ chaotic frenzy, made even harder _(as usual)_ by the fact that he has to pretend he's not magically _(illegally)_ trying to come up with a solution. Gaius has an endless amount of possible solutions, which obviously means Merlin has to be the one running around trying to turn them into **practical** solutions.

There are magical _(forbidden)_ herbs to fetch, sorcerers to find and interrogate, spells to be learned and tried and eventually dismissed, and even an embarrassing talk with a _(supposedly dead)_ dragon that thrives off being cryptic...

None of it works.

Merlin hasn't honestly worried yet – he's been pulling Arthur's royal arse out of the fire for years, can anyone really blame him for finding it a bit dull these days? – but now the worry is starting to creep upon him. It's not as simple as he thought it'd be, and maybe he ought to know better than to underestimate magical objects, but…

It's a bloody _spindle_. Pardon him for having a hard time looking at it like it's a threat.

He's slumped in a chair in Arthur's room, occasionally dragging a rug against one of Arthur's many shoes in order to look somewhat busy _(it takes him a while to notice that the rug is only making the previously clean boot dirty)._

Gwen is sitting by the bed, watching as Gaius yet again investigates the tiny wound _(Merlin's sure he can draw parallels between the man's investigating and Merlin's useless shoe-polishing),_ and the knights are haphazardly lounging around in the room.

"What do we do, Gaius?" he hears Gwen quietly ask Gaius, whose eyebrows only lower further.

"I'm afraid," he states heavily, "that I do not know."

"Well, there must be something," Leon says roughly, "I say we focus on every possible solution; what about the swamp herb you mentioned the day before yesterday?"

Merlin makes a vaguely angry noise.

"I, ah, already sent Merlin to fetch those," Gaius says briskly. "My apologies for not informing anyone of this; I simply didn't want anyone to get their hopes up. It was a bit of a fool's errand."

Merlin makes another _(less vague)_ angry noise, and defiantly starts dirtying the boot again. Fool's errand, indeed!

"…Well," Gwaine starts.

"Don't," Gwen interrupts immediately, sending the knight a tired glare.

"I'm just saying, your Highness – "

"I'd prefer if you didn't say anything at all."

"I repeat; true love's kiss."

"Gwaine, leave my sister alone."

"What? I'm merely trying to be a good knight of the realm and protect our beloved king!"

"I'm sure our beloved king would prefer it if you shut your mouth."

Over the other's arguing, Gaius suddenly stiffens. It's not subtle _(Merlin knows Gaius can hide his tells if he so wishes),_ meaning the physician actually wants to share his new discovery.

"Ah," he starts faintly.

Funny how one syllable manages to catch the attention of everyone in the room, Merlin muses bitterly. If he himself said _ah_ most people would just assume he's fallen or dropped something or otherwise managed to earn him a day in the stocks.

"I, ahem, seem to recall one occasion where…" Gaius' voice falters.

Gwen's eyebrows appear to be conflicted whether they should lower or climb towards her hairline. "Yes?"

Gaius clears his throat, appearing reluctant to continue. "Well, there was that one time, a few years ago, when Arthur was under a rather peculiar spell…"

"Oh no," Merlin mutters, a sinking feeling in his gut.

"A spell that was broken by a true love's kiss."

In Gaius' defence, it sounded like it caused him physical pain to even utter those words.

Gwaine lets out a whoop of glee and slaps his hands together. "Would you look at that, fellas? Alas, sir Gwaine has yet again found the solution to the problem!"

"You can't be serious," Elyan says sourly.

Leon coughs briefly. "It does sound a tad… ridiculous."

"Utterly ridiculous," Merlin agrees readily, because he did **not** waste days upon days trying to undo a spell only to be beaten to the punch by a _kiss_ , of all things.

"I can't say for – "

"Oh for the love of god," Gwen cries, before leaning down and giving Arthur a sound kiss on the lips. There's nothing particularly romantic about it. In fact, Merlin's pretty sure at least one of them is going to have a sore lip from their teeth knocking together, and he peeks at Arthur just to see if he's about to start choking on blood from a split lip or something equally dangerous.

"There," Gwen snaps as she straightens her back, widely gesticulating at her unconscious husband, "Since that ridiculous idea obviously didn't work, can we please return to trying to figure out how to actually– "

Arthur coughs.

The king's eyes blink open, peering up at his wife and knights who in turn stare at him with mouths gaping open.

"Well, I'll be damned," Gwaine whistles, sounding remarkably impressed with himself.

Merlin lets the boot fall to the floor and throws his hands up in the air, cursing the bloody moron who thought a spindle was a good assassination plot. And Gaius for his stupid, multiple fool's errands. And Arthur for being a complete and utter moron.

He leaves the room quickly – before Arthur manages to call for him. He's earned a whole day off by now, and so help him, he'll get that day off _(even if he has to make the entire castle fall asleep)._

 **oOoOo**

He can, however, admit that there are a few benefits from the whole ordeal.

Like the fact that Gwaine apparently decided to go to the tavern and spread a romanticised version of the story, and that said story turned out to be quite popular – Merlin can't tell exactly how many different versions of the tale he's already heard. It got even better when the bards decided to turn them into poetic songs, singing ballads about the fair beauty being woken by a kiss from the brave hero of the story.

It may make the king a bit cranky, but Merlin can always enjoy the look of horror on Arthur's face when he realizes that _he's_ the one being described as having _hair of sunshine gold and lips red as the rose._

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 **Reviews, as always, equal virtual cookies for you and some fuel for me! :)**


	12. In which Uther makes a discovery

**Ahhh, thanks a bunch for the reviews - you guys rock! :)**

 **This chapter is completely Uther's POV, which was an interesting twist for me to write. I happen to be quite fond of his character, so I hope I didn't mess up too badly. As a side note, let me just say that it's always lovely to write for this fandom; I was writing a fic for another fandom when it suddenly did a U-turn and I somehow ended up with Merlin again.**

 **Set in season 4, and no warnings that I can think of.**

 **Summary: _In which Merlin is painfully careless, Uther fears for the future of Camelot, and Arthur is just doing his best._  
**

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The world is smaller these days. Smaller as in, his world consists of his dull room and his dull thoughts and the dull view of the courtyard beneath his window. It's all just... dull.

The servants come and go, clean the room, change the sheets, even clean him, and he's dully surprised by the sheer _dullness_ of _their_ daily routine. One of the servant girls is vaguely familiar, and he thinks he might just remember her a bit _(which is surprising, given the amount of servants he's seen and dismissed over the course of his very, very long career)._

The least dull moment of the day is when Arthur sits with him; golden hair glimmering in sunshine that isn't even there and his voice a cooling balm for his oh so tired soul. Uther doesn't always listen to the words, per se, but he likes _listening_.

There are better days and worse days. Days that pass without him noticing, and days that he's coherent enough to recognize his surroundings.

Today's servant that helps him out of bed is... not rough, precisely, but rather... hurried. Gentle enough, but fast enough to bother the king. Rather rude, actually. Disrespectful – Uther may not be like he once was, but that does not mean he gets to be treated like a foot soldier wounded in the heat of battle.

Annoyingly enough, he recognizes this one as well – no other servant would have the audacity to treat their king like this, nor ramble in his presence. Or... _complain_ , would be a better word.

This is that servant of Arthur – the one that is strangely incompetent and equally strangely loyal, and even more strangely still not unemployed. Odd fellow. Why was it that Arthur hasn't fired him yet, he wonders drowsily, but his son's useless servant is hardly enough to keep his attention.

What is, however, enough to dramatically catch his attention, is that damnable, godforsaken sorcery.

That – that _traitorous, back-stabbing, double-crossing bastard_ of a servant! His eyes flare a sickening yellow, like rotting teeth and pus weeping from an infected wound, and the silver tray _floats_ across the room and hovers between them, a grotesquely casual gesture displayed in the very _heart_ of Camelot.

The servant is still chattering under his breath as he reaches for both the tray _and_ Uther, and -

And Uther will not die like a blubbering fool in his own bed, killed by the very evil he's fought so hard to destroy – no, he will not die without a fight.

With a shout, he sends his flailing fist towards the tray _(weak, weak, his old arms have grown so weak from the prolonged inactivity_ ), but there's still enough fight in this old man to knock over a hovering tray.

The silver edge hits the lower face of the sorcerer, who topples backwards with a surprised, muffled shout of his own. The content of the tray smashes to the floor, cans breaking into a million pieces and water sloshing over both the floor and the traitor. Uther feels a sting of pride at the proof of him not being completely defenseless, and he shoots up from his earlier sitting position on the bed, although the legs underneath him are anything but stable.

His fingers itch for a sword, but there is no weapon in sight – oh, how he wishes to hold his sword once more!

He looks down at the sorcerer who, for some reason, is still covering at his feet, propping himself up on his elbow and holding his free hand to his heavily bleeding mouth. It must have been a good hit – the blood is dripping between his fingers, running down his pale arm and disappearing down his sleeve, dots of red staining the blue scarf tied around his filthy neck. Uther hopes he bit off his wretched tongue.

"Guards!" He calls hoarsely, staring down at the filth before him with as much loathing he can conjure. If there was so much as a flicker of a doubt if he actually saw this, if perhaps his age has caught up with him, it's gone with the look in the sorcerer's eyes – the fright, the horror, the realization that he's been caught – Uther's been here before. This is hardly the first sorcerer he's found in his own castle. " _Guards!_ "

The sound of running feet is a welcome one, and his knees go weak with relief when the heavy wooden door is thrown open. The two guards that enter are wide-eyed and clutching the handles of their swords, and they abruptly halt at the sight of their king; up and about and walking, talking and punching servants.

"Guards," Uther repeats, gesturing at the traitor, "Arrest the sorcerer."

The guards hesitate.

"Are you deaf?" Uther hisses. "I told you to arrest him!"

"O-of course, sire," one of the guards stammers, taking a step closer to Uther but not to the damn traitor. "Go fetch Prince Arthur," he adds lowly to his companion, who takes off sprinting, before respectfully turning around to face the king. "Well... What seems to be the problem, my lord?"

"Are you as daft as you are deaf?" Uther asks in disbelief. "This filth of a traitor used magic – I want him hanged. Or better yet _burned_!" When the guard fails to give him a satisfying reaction, Uther growls and stumbles closer, ripping the sword from the guard's sheath. The guard presses his lips together but makes no move to stop him – smart man, for a simpleton.

It's not his own sword, nor is it as well-balanced, but it's as capable as any weapon is to spill blood. He points it at the still unmoving sorcerer, who finally scrambles backwards as the sword nears him.

"How long have you been at my son's side, waiting for every chance to see him fall?" Uther says, voice a mere whisper of rage. "How long have you been planning to _make_ him fall?"

"I'd never, my lord," the sorcerer denies, voice made thick by the blood and muffled by his palm.

"Don't _lie_ to me, traitor," Uther roars, the servant going cross-eyed as he stares at the hungry edge of the sword.

It's in that instance that Arthur barges through the door.

"Father," he cries, joy in his voice at the sight of his father standing on his own two feet, but he still freezes right past the doorway.

"Arthur," Uther sighs, feeling his sword arm tremble and shake with the once familiar weight of the sword. "Quickly, son – your servant, he's a sorcerer."

Arthur doesn't say anything, but his eyes are impossibly wide as he raises his hands and takes a few slow steps towards his father. "Put away the sword, father," he says slowly, and sends the guards a murderous glare and mouths, "Who the _hell_ gave him a bloody sword?"

Uther feels his grip on the sword slack as dread curls, cold and dark, in the pit of his stomach. "Arthur," he says harshly _(pleadingly),_ "Son, he's a sorcerer. I saw it, as well as I see you right now."

"Alright, father," his son says soothingly, but Uther's not stupid enough to not see when he's being patronized.

"He's bewitched you," he breathes, and suddenly everything makes sense. He sees red when he turns his eyes towards the servant – oh, he knows why he hasn't gotten to his feet yet, alright! That sneaky bastard is playing the victim; covering on the floor, letting the blood spill between his fingers, the frightened look on his face – oh, he plays the part _well_.

"You utter _**bastard**_ ," Uther seethes, raising the sword to plunge it towards the treacherous snake, to cut out that blackened, corrupted heart –

"No, father," Arthur yells, and suddenly there's a wall of his not-so-little son in front of him, one hand pushing him backwards and the other clutching his sword arm, pressing down until the sword falls from the king's hand.

Uther shouts in wordless anger, pushing fruitlessly at his son's unmoving bulk, but his old body is far, far too weak and he curses magic, curses it for taking his wife and corrupting his daughter and bewitching his son and destroying _everything_ he holds dear.

He's back on the bed, legs giving out underneath him, and he wouldn't be able to get back up even if he tried. Arthur draws in a shaky breath, claps his shoulder, and gruffly orders the guards to watch him. As though _he's_ the dangerous one.

Uther watches in nameless horror as Arthur approaches the servant, kneeling down beside him and putting a hand on _his_ shoulder. From this position Uther can't see their faces, but he can hear the mumbled words of _"I'm fine"_ and _"Shut up, Merlin,"_ as Arthur carefully pulls his servant to his feet.

"What did you do to yourself this time, you moron – _stop_ pressing your hand against it, just use the damn neckerchief -"

"Don't want to use my neckerchief," Merlin mumbles petulantly, "Bloodstains are hard to get out."

"Oh for the love of –" Arthur snatches one of towels from the floor and, again to Uther's horror, presses the clean, expensive and carefully embroidered white clothing against the traitor's dirty, bloodied face. "Stop squirming, Merlin, let me have a look – ahh, damn, did you actually bite through your own lip?"

"Think it had something to do with being hit by a tray, thank you very much."

"Clumsy idiot," Arthur murmurs fondly, taking hold of the sorcerer's arm and steering him towards the doorway. Uther doesn't miss the fact that Arthur is studiously shielding the servant from the king's eyes.

"Get him to Gaius'," he orders one of the guards, his voice already sounding further away than it should, "And call for Guinevere; we'll need to rearrange the servants' schedule for taking care of the king. It's probably for the best if Merlin, for starters, gets some other duties. On second thought, I'll handle that part myself."

"Thank you kindly, sire," Merlin mutters, and meets Uther's eyes for the fraction of a second.

His facial expression doesn't change, there's not a flicker of mockery or triumph on his face, but his eyes…

He knows he's already won.

After all, who would believe a bedridden old fool of a man, even if said old man is the king?

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 **Oh, buddy.**

 **Someone give the poor man a drink. Or a hug. And l** **ikewise, please give the author a review - it means a lot! :)**


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